


Summer Film Festival of Death

by OldToadWoman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Awkward Sex, Bottom Dean, Bottom Sam, Canon Compliant, Canon Compliant through Season 11, Case Fic, Cuddles, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Hugs, Humor, M/M, Mild Horror, POV Sam Winchester, Sex, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Snark, Top Dean, Top Sam, Wincest - Freeform, fart jokes, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-22 10:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 127,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11965716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldToadWoman/pseuds/OldToadWoman
Summary: Sam's point of view as he and Dean go on a hunt at a Florida movie theater where a person has died at every Saturday matinee for a month. They are short on clues leaving them an excessive amount of time to watch movies and drink booze and there's nothing to distract Sam from his increasingly inappropriate thoughts about his brother.(Per the prompt, this fic contains spilled popcorn and Winchesters clinging together watching a scary movie. As a bonus, this fic also contains Winchesters in various stages of dress and undress in the Florida heat. "Your un-flannelled Kansas ass needs sunscreen.")





	1. So Get This, Jinxed Movie Theater

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SamanthaxSecret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaxSecret/gifts).



> Because of the show's schedule, we always miss summer. Sometimes it is established that we've jumped forward in time during the hiatus, but even when the fall season picks up exactly where we left off, it's never summer. To fulfill my desire of seeing Sam and Dean sweaty, this story takes place in an early season 12 timeline where it is still summer. This is canon-compliant through all of season 11 (and possibly the very beginning of season 12).
> 
> Acknowledgements: Huge, huge thank-yous to [Amilyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Amilyn) and [Persephone Garnata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_garnata) for their invaluable help both in beta reading and in poking me with a stick during those months when I just wasn't accomplishing anything. Thanks also to [SleeveHeart_Prime](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SleeveHeart_Prime) for catching a few typos we all missed. Special thanks to [SamanthaxSecret](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaxSecret) for the prompt. (This was written for [this Tumblr prompt](http://acklelantern.tumblr.com/post/151157072858/i-want-sam-and-dean-to-investigate-a-haunted) from [SamanthaxSecret (fawnjensen)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaxSecret) (which was posted almost a year ago because I suck).)  
>    
> A preemptive apology to Floridians: I do not hate your state, I swear. I lived in Florida as a kid and loved it. I loved the beaches and the campgrounds and the tourist attractions and those crazy sunsets when the clouds were just right that they turned pink. The lizards and sand fleas and cockroaches and alligators and giant spiders were just normal things you took for granted and if you questioned them at all, you just thought _Well, at least we don't have blizzards_. (I'm now in the north where during a bad winter storm we console ourselves that at least it will kill off more bugs. The deal with Mother Nature seems to be _bugs or snow, pick one extreme or chose to live with mild levels of both_.) But I definitely think that Sam and Dean would be experiencing a little culture shock and I decided to have fun with that. You might not be able to see it between Dean's complaints, but I really did become increasingly nostalgic for Florida as I wrote this.

  


°•°♥°•°♥°•°

_I swear to God, if it's another dead guy, I am so getting a raise_ , Sophie thought the day of the second death. 

It wasn't that she was a callous person. It wasn't that she even seriously believed it was another dead guy. But she definitely felt she deserved a raise after last week when she found Henry Kagan's corpse sprawled in his seat as if he'd just fallen asleep during a really boring old movie (they were _all_ really boring old movies at The Festival). Except he was, in point of fact, very dead and Mr. Price hadn't given her a raise or anything. He just sent her home early, as if he were being nice, but then he didn't pay her for that time so really all he'd done was cheat her out of her hours.

"Hey! The movie's over," she called out. "Time to go home."

The shape did not move.

Sophie sighed and continued picking up discarded drink cups and napkins, muttering to herself about how gross people were when the theater provided large trash cans by every exit. 

"Time to go home," she repeated. 

She tossed a large popcorn bucket into the trash and grabbed the carpet sweeper. Bypassing several rows that were in need of a good sweep, she proceeded to the middle of the theater. With the handle of the sweeper, she poked at the sleeping man. It was probably rude, but she didn't want to risk it if the weirdo came up swinging.

It wasn't another dead guy. 

The figure slumped over and Sophie realized it was a dead woman. 

She almost looked a little like Aunt Jean, though maybe a bit younger. Sophie felt queasy. But she also felt a little pissed off. At nineteen years old, she really shouldn't have to put up with crap like this.

She turned and marched to the entrance at the back of the theater. She made sure she was standing by the door where Mr. Price would certainly be able to hear her when she screamed. It was a good classic, horror movie scream-queen kind of scream.

Price, of course, came running, as did Krissy Anne and even Carl came in from his smoke break to see what was going on. Mr. Price sent Sophie home again, but when she "hysterically" pleaded to stay because she needed her hours, he agreed to pay her for the full shift before having Krissy Anne give her a ride home. She still didn't get a raise, but a paid Saturday evening off was nothing to sneeze at.

The third time… the third time was too much. 

Sophie just froze in her tracks. _Not again_ , the voice in her head whispered. 

Three people in as many weeks, it just wasn't possible. But it also wasn't possible that the guy had merely fallen asleep. Sure the movie was boring as hell, some crappy mafia film from the 1970s that was supposed to be a classic, but it was also full of gun fights and screaming and who could fall asleep during that?

She marched forward with the carpet sweeper, but when she reached the row in question she didn't even bother to poke. Maybe none of the other theater patrons noticed as they exited during the credits in the still-dim theater, but with the house lights on there was no mistaking the blood for anything else. 

Sophie wasn't even acting when she screamed.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

"So get this," Sam said. "Jinxed movie theater."

Dean didn't even look up from his burger and fries. "Jinxed or cursed?" he asked before taking a big greasy bite.

"Is there a difference?" Mary asked.

"A trivial distinction," Castiel said.

Castiel and Mary were doing something in the middle of the bunker library that looked a bit like tai chi, but which they both insisted was nothing of the kind.

Sam shrugged and when he realized Dean wasn't looking at him he added, "Three deaths in three weeks. All during the Saturday matinee."

"The vics have anything in common?"

"A retired film buff, a local insurance agent, and a pharmacist on vacation from Minnesota."

"But the deaths were similar?" Dean asked.

"The first two appear to be natural causes, but the third was multiple gunshots."

Dean made an inarticulate noise behind a mouthful of dead cow. The fact that Sam knew he'd said, "So what?" was an indication of how well he knew his brother and had nothing to do with Dean's enunciation.

"No one in the theater heard gunshots. I mean, well, other than the gunshots in the movie itself."

Dean rolled his eyes and Sam knew he'd lost him.

"The killer would have had to perfectly time the shots to match the film for no one to have noticed anything amiss," he finished, unable to let it go without getting out his last point. "And after the other deaths… weird coincidence, don't you think?" 

"We're very busy," Castiel said tersely. Castiel's definition of busy seemed to include doing nothing, as slowly as possible, while looking constipated, which, now that Sam thought of it, could explain a few things.

"If you boys want to go take a look, I don't mind," Mary said. "Castiel and I can work at perfecting these Enochian power spells while you're gone."

Dean took another bite and made another sound. This one Sam translated as "Where?"

"Florida. Pinellas County," Sam said, knowing it was a no-go. If it had been winter, they'd have gone probably. But even Sam wasn't that keen on driving to cockroach country in the middle of summer. 

Dean slurped at the straw in his soda pop and then said, "Tell you what. Anyone bites it at the next matinee, we'll go check it out."

A week later, "bites" turned out to be an unfortunate word choice.  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam would have thought he was completely immune to gore by now, but he still winced when the Medical Examiner carried the remains out in what looked like a large Tupperware container. "'The height and weight of the victim can only be estimated from the partial remains. The torso has been severed mid-thorax; there are no major organs remaining... Right arm has been severed above the elbow with massive tissue loss in the upper musculature... partially denuded bone remaining…'"

Dean didn't even have the decency to wait until the M.E. left the room before quipping to Sam, "'This was no boat accident.'"

"The victim was found in the middle of a cinema so that wasn't really one of our theories." Dr. Bradstreet was a fifty-something-year-old woman whose graying hair was pinned back with girlish plastic barrettes. She did not appear to possess a sense of humor. But she did seem to know her old movies. In the same dry tone, she continued. "So we didn't notify the Coast Guard despite the indications of 'the non-frenzied feeding of a large squalus.'"

"Squalus?" Sam repeated.

"Dude," Dean said, nudging him. "She's quoting the movie."

She nodded imperceptibly and continued quoting, "'The left arm, head, shoulders, sternum and portions of the rib cage are intact…' All accurate. It's eerie how precise this serial killer was. Every detail is authentic."

"Serial killer?" Dean asked.

"Unless you think it actually was a _Longimanus_ or _Isurus glauca_ , which," she added, "doesn't actually exist by the way. The longfin mako is _Isurus paucus_ and the blue shark is _Prionace glauca_. The screenwriter got the species crisscrossed."

"So you definitely agree it's related to the shooting last week," Sam said.

"Nothing connects them other than place and time," she said. "So it's not really my job to speculate."

"But?" Dean prompted. 

"Sonny Corleone, shot for shot. Granted, I'm comparing a detailed autopsy with a blurry clip on YouTube, but as near as I can tell, the bullets all match."

"What made you think to even look for that?" Sam asked.

"It's the woman the week before that I can't figure out," she continued without answering.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"We heard something about recent deaths by _natural_ causes," Dean said. "Maybe not so natural after all?"

"Cardiac arrest and leukemia. You can't murder someone with leukemia. Not instantly anyway and the tox screens were clean on both of them. I can't imagine how you'd fake either of those. Natural causes. Cases closed."

"But?" Dean prompted.

She said nothing.

"Off the record," Sam added. "Give us your craziest theory."

"I wasn't the one who examined the first man. That looked like a straightforward cardiac event. Older man with a history of heart disease, all the risk factors. Nothing suspicious. But the young woman. No family history of leukemia or any form of cancer, no diagnosis of her own on record and none of her friends were aware she was ill, yet severe build-up of white blood cells… she should have been in a great deal of pain, weak, and dizzy for weeks if not months before her death. You die of end-stage leukemia in a hospital or at home in hospice care. You don't just decide to pop out to a love story matinee. Absolutely none of it makes any sense."

"The connection with Sonny Corleone?" Dean prompted again when she didn't seem inclined to say more.

"Oh, I missed that entirely," she said. "Terrible tragedy of course, but nothing particularly _unusual_ about a shooting death. It was _this_ woman that made me look back at his autopsy notes. A woman dying of leukemia watching _Love Story_ is unsettling and tragic. A woman being eaten by a shark while watching _Jaws_ is just… just…" She gestured at the remains and took a deep breath before continuing. "So I decided to take another look at _Godfather_ guy."

Sam blinked as he suddenly realized she hadn't been talking about _a_ love story; it was the name of the film.

"Wait, so all the deaths match the films they were watching?" Dean asked and then without waiting for a reply asked, "What movie was heart attack guy at?"

"Cardiac arrest," she corrected without bothering to explain the difference. " _Tales from the Crypt_."

"Someone died of a heart attack in that?" Sam asked. He couldn't actually remember if he'd seen it or not. He'd seen a lot of old movies on free motel cable TV over the years. "Is that the one where the guy gets drowned by high tide?"

"Nah, that's _Creepshow_ ," Dean said. "That came out a decade later. We're talking _Tales from the Crypt_ the original movie, right? Let's see, strangulation, car crash… " Dean snapped his fingers. "Heart attack. Guy sees Death following him, dies of fright. That's got to be the most boring death in the whole movie. Why that one?"

"Asking why implies the killer has rational motivations," Bradstreet said. "You're clearly dealing with someone who is completely insane. But," she added, "also… inhumanly efficient. Are we done?"

The Winchester brothers exchanged a shrug, which she took as permission to pack away what was left of the body. Sam flinched at the accompanying clattering sound. Morgues were, by necessity, cold and they nearly always echoed. It was almost certainly a side effect of needing to keep surfaces clean and sterile, thus no soft upholstery to baffle the noise. But it always felt to Sam as if morgues echoed with something more ominous. The cold and the echo seemed to be poetically connected. 

Dean left one of their fake FBI business cards on the table. "If you come up with anything else weird, like anything, like no matter how weird, call us."

"Maybe you could tell those guys at the theater to play a romantic comedy for a change this week," she called over her shoulder as they walked out.

They made it all the way to the car before Dean made the first chick flick joke.  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	2. Bitch-Ass Flying Cockroaches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Festival is broadly inspired by The Fremont in San Luis Obispo California, but I didn't want to slander any actual theater owners so I changed the location to Florida.
> 
>   
>    
>  [Image of the 'real' Festival](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/b1uemorpho/21390328/23066/23066_800.jpg)   
> 
> 
> NOTE: With the exception of that opening teaser scene, this story is entirely Sam's point of view and while Sam is mostly honest, there is one area where the unreliable-narrator factor comes into play. You and I know that Sam Winchester is awesome, but Sam doesn't always know it. So anytime you start to think, "Why are you being so mean to Sam?" just remember that it's Sam's POV and _he's_ the one who is being too hard on himself.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

The theater was just a few blocks from the beach and Dean muttered about the effects of salt air on the Impala's undercarriage. His muttering only increased when they had to circle around for parking. They ended up parked about halfway between the beach and the theater and the walk was like a mini death march. 

Sam had feared that being in Florida again would dredge up bad memories, but this urban tourist-friendly stretch of the gulf coast bore no resemblance to the inland rural side of western Broward County. It was all sand and palm trees, traffic and concrete, heat and humidity.

"We need a cover that does not involve suits," Sam said wiping his already damp hair off of his forehead.

"I forgot how much I hate Florida. Really, the entire Gulf of Mexico area. It's all bugs and gators and swamp monsters."

"Swamp monsters?" Sam asked, slightly afraid that Dean knew something he didn't.

"Law of averages," Dean said with a confident nod. "Let's not stick around and look for any swamp monsters."

"We could be… safety inspectors? Wear lightweight jumpsuits? White coveralls with clipboards, that's like free access to everywhere."

"Next time."

Sam wasn't sure if Dean was agreeing or brushing him off. 

The theater turned out to be far more… _pastel_ than Sam had expected for a haunted theater. It was pink and yellow and baby blue and turquoise and mint green swooping over art deco plasterwork. Neon lights proclaimed it "The Festival", but Sam wasn't sure the lights were even on under the glare of the sun. The marquee read " CLASSIC FILMS" and listed showtimes. The box office was vacant, but a sign urged them to ring the bell for tickets. Dean walked by without breaking his stride and Sam followed him inside. 

The blessed blast of air conditioning drove all other thoughts from Sam's mind. He was dimly aware that Dean was already flirting with the woman at the snack bar, but for a moment Sam was content to just stand in the lobby flapping his jacket in an attempt to move some of the air where it was more needed.

The lobby was larger than it needed to be. The carpet was a swirl of gray and turquoise around the edges and corners, but it was sun-faded near the glass doors and had been trodden to a swirl of gray and muddier gray in the paths between the doors and snack bar and the hallway to the side with the RESTROOMS sign. The ceiling had translucent, plastic panels to color and diffuse the fluorescent lights, pink and blue and green. Some were colorless but frosted, but many panels were missing, exposing the bare fluorescent tubes above, which flickered and buzzed.

"Check this out," Dean called to him. "They've got booze!"

Sam sighed and wandered over to the snack bar where he was greeted by Dean holding out a strawberry daiquiri. "They've only got the fruity crap," Dean said as if he didn't have a giant smile on his face. 

Sam took the daiquiri just as the woman set down an enormous bucket of popcorn. "Two popcorns?" she asked. 

Dean nodded, but Sam quickly interrupted and insisted that the one was plenty. 

"This is Krissy Anne," Dean said. "She's been working here for years and was on duty during all of the matinees in question."

Krissy Anne was almost attractive, but her sun-damaged skin and pale blonde hair made her seem worn out beyond her years (which Sam was afraid to guess at, lest he overestimate by a decade or two). He wondered how many hours a day she spent at the beach, but then quickly chided himself. Given the opportunity—in some other universe where his fate hadn't been sealed before he was even born—Sam might have quite enjoyed spending his life as a beach bum, wrinkles be damned.

He glanced around and finally took note that they were the only people in the lobby at all. "How big is the staff here?"

"Just the three of us at the moment," Krissy Anne said. "I work the bar. Carl runs the projector and does miscellaneous odd jobs. Sophie used to run the ticket counter and help clean up, but she quit recently. And that was _before_ Carl found the… Can you even call what was left a body? We're looking to replace her, but, with the recent publicity, job applicants are even rarer than paying customers."

"Was that three people including or not including Sophie?"

"Not. There's also Mr. Price the owner. Anyway if you want to do this, we need to start now to finish in time for the evening show."

"You expect paying customers by then?"

She nodded. "It always picks up later when people come in off the beach. Enough of the tourists don't read the local news, so… yeah."

"All right," Dean said, "Let's go." He grabbed the popcorn and headed into the theater. Sam followed feeling like he'd missed something.

The Festival was a single screen cinema with five hundred seats that Sam didn't imagine were so much as half filled even on their busiest nights. Dean led him to a pair of seats in the dead center. A few rows behind them a cardboard box was upturned over one of the seats with "broken — do not use" written on it in black marker. Sam had a feeling the only thing "broken" about the chair was they couldn't get the bloodstains out. He took a closer look around the ornate theater and finally spotted a second cardboard box covering a seat on the other side. Only two of the four deaths had been bloody. There was no hint of where the other two victims might have sat.

"So what's going on?" Sam asked Dean as they took their seats.

"They're having a slow afternoon. No one showed up for the three o'clock matinee so Krissy Anne has agreed to give us a preview of Saturday's matinee instead."

"Shouldn't we try to find out more about what's going on before we watch a film that could get us killed?" Sam asked, but he found himself grabbing a handful of popcorn anyway.

"Four weeks in a row it's always been on a Saturday. Today's Tuesday. I'm feeling safe. This could just give us a head's up on what to expect."

"What's the film?"

Dean shrugged. " _Don't Look Now_. Never even heard of it. So we get to be surprised. Spoiler free."

Sam shrugged and grabbed another handful of Dean's popcorn.   
   
Dean slapped Sam's hand. "Get your own if you're going to scarf it all."   
   
Sam huffed and dashed back to the lobby. He hoped they wouldn't start the picture without him. He hated missing the first few minutes of a movie.  
   
Krissy Anne was kind enough to not comment on his sudden change of mind and quickly provided him with a jumbo bucket of popcorn and shooed him away without accepting any money. "Hurry!" she said. "Carl's about to start it."   
   
Sam dutifully hurried back to his seat.  
   
The theater, in addition to being ridiculously huge, was also stunning, as colorful inside as out, with recessed lighting illuminating elaborate plasterwork. Sam was not an architectural expert by any means, but the art deco style evoked images of the 20s and 30s.

The lights dimmed. The film began. They sipped their daiquiris and munched their popcorn and then shit got dark. Like unexpectedly dark. Like Sam-might-have-cried-a-little-bit dark, because, holy crap, he was not expecting the whole dead-kid motif. Sam did _not_ need any more grief and angst (or meat-cleaver-wielding lunatics for that matter) in his life. Dean screamed like a girl and got the remnants of Sam's popcorn _everywhere_ during the final reveal which almost made up for it though.

The house lights came up after the credits and Sam was suddenly self-conscious to realize he still had one arm protectively wrapped around Dean's shoulder and he pulled it away before Dean could protest that he didn't need to be defended from the big, bad movie that had, in fact, scared the bejeezus out of him.

"So… the next victim is Kiefer Sutherland's dad?"

"Looks like it," Dean agreed, grabbed his empty popcorn bucket and his plastic daiquiri glass and headed for the exit.

"I'm not sure that actually helps us stop the killings though."

"Was it just me or was that movie racist against dwarves?"

"Dwarves aren't a race," Sam said. "I mean, unless you're talking _Lord of the Rings_ kind of dwarves. But, yes, a common trope in cinema, and storytelling in general really, is to equate physical attractiveness with nobility and physical deformity of any kind with evil."

"That was messed up," Dean declared to Krissy Anne who was serving daiquiris to customers who, against Dean's predictions, had actually arrived early for the evening show.

"I don't pick the movies," Krissy Anne said. "Take that up with Mr. Price."

"His first name isn't Vincent by any chance?" Dean asked.

Krissy Anne laughed. "Andy actually and he's like twelve so not so much of the creepy old man vibe."

"And where do we find Little Andy?" Dean asked.

She nodded at the box office which was now occupied by a man in a suit every bit as out of place as Sam and Dean's on a Florida summer evening. They walked over and waved their badges and Price somewhat grudgingly let them into the ticket booth.

Despite appearing to be about seventeen, Andrew Price was thirty years old, the grandson of The Festival's original owner, and, well, pretentious as fuck.

Someone had reached into his brain and done a Replace-All on the pronoun "I" substituting it with "We here at The Festival". It started out weird and then just got annoying really fast. 

"We here at The Festival take this situation very seriously.

"We here at The Festival will do everything in our power to cooperate.

"We here at The Festival have every confidence in the police.

"We here at The Festival look forward to putting this all behind us."

It was all interspersed with selling tickets as more and more tourists drifted in, unaware or unconcerned about the recent deaths. 

Dean often tried to warm up witnesses with conversational nonsequiturs. "This the theater where Pee-wee Herman was arrested?" he asked.

Price hesitated while counting out a customer's change, looking confused. "Who?"

"What do you mean 'Who?'" Dean asked.

"Dude," Sam interrupted. " _Pee-wee's Playhouse_ was canceled a million years ago. Get over it."

Dean glowered at him, but dropped it.

Nearly every person through the door commented on the air conditioning, some, like Sam, appreciatively, but many more in flimsy beach cover-ups complaining about the chill. Each time, Price pointed out that The Festival sweatshirts were for sale at the bar.

"So, I'm starting to get how this racket works," Dean said, as Price closed down the box office following the start of the movie. "You show crappy old movies for only $3 a pop, because you make your money on hoodies and daiquiris. Am I right, Andy?"

Price was carrying the cash drawer he'd pulled from the register, but he still went through the motions of locking up the empty box office behind them. The cash drawer was balanced somewhat precariously on one hand as he fumbled with the keys. He nearly lost it as he turned suddenly to respond to Dean. 

" _Mister_ Price, if you don't mind. I am the owner. It's important to maintain an appropriate level of professionalism in the workplace." Krissy Anne smirked behind his back, but Mr. Price continued unaware. "And we do _not_ show 'crappy old movies'. We here at The Festival show _classics_ , personally curated by my father." After a brief pause, he added, "And it's mainly the daiquiris, yes. The overhead on a theater is more than you'd expect."

Dean shrugged and mouthed something to Krissy Anne that Sam didn't catch, but daiquiris materialized a moment later. This time they were blue. 

"So, _Mr._ Price, we'd like to talk to—Carl was it?—who found the latest victim."

"Carl won't be available until the end of the evening. He's in the projection room and with these old films, the projectionist needs to stay at the ready."

"And we'd like the contact information for, uh." Dean paused and looked at his notes. "Sophia Lopez, who, I believe, found the first victims."

"Krissy Anne will get that for you. Now if you'll excuse me."

Price quickly disappeared into a side door with "PRIVATE" etched in a brass plate at eye level.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Krissy Anne turned to them and grumbled, "I work the freaking snack bar! Does he think I keep HR forms up my ass?"

Dean started to apologize, but he'd barely even begun to flirt when Krissy Anne sighed and pulled her phone out of her back pocket. "It's okay. I actually do have her number. Take it easy on her. She's just a kid. Decent worker too. I wouldn't mind having her back here, but she's not taking my calls."

Dean wrote down the information while Sam went through the drill… Strange noises? Flickering lights? Cold spots? Does the building have a violent history? Have you seen anything unusual?

They drew a complete blank on everything. 

"This is a pretty old theater," Sam observed. "1920s? Was it an old vaudeville house before it became a theater?"

Krissy Anne laughed. "Late 1950s and it's always been a movie theater. It was already retro when it was built. They were definitely going for that old Hollywood glamour look, though. Old Mr. Price used the space for concerts for a while, but his grandson has this thing about the _purity_ of cinema." 

"Price inherited from his grandfather," Dean repeated. "Would the old man have been upset about any of the changes he made since he took over?"

"He was a real estate guy. He built hotels and resorts and theaters and restaurants back when Florida was first starting to boom. He didn't care much about day-to-day operations as long as he was making money. These days even that makes no difference to him."

"Do you know where old Mr. Price is buried?" Sam asked and realized from Dean's sharp look that he'd overstepped, even before Krissy Anne wrinkled her nose.

"I think his nursing home is in Saint Pete," Krissy Anne said. "But I gather he's really out of it so I wouldn't bother trying to interview him."

Dean waved vaguely at Sam and made a sort "Ffft" sound that somehow clearly conveyed, _Geez, my partner, what an idiot, am I right?_ and Sam frowned at him as soon as Krissy Anne wasn't looking.

The six o'clock show was a Gene Hackman film about surveillance and paranoia which Sam thought sounded interesting, but Dean thought sounded boring. They slipped into a couple seats in the back about ten minutes into the film and maybe they lost something in the set-up because of that, but Sam never quite got into the story. 

They'd hoped to catch Carl between showings, but when they caught up with Krissy Anne in the lobby, she informed them that he'd slipped out for a break. 

Price came out of his office to sell the next wave of tickets for the late show and, in the meantime, Krissy Anne kept refilling their daiquiris so Sam might have been a teensy bit tipsy by the second round of questioning.

Price remained tight-lipped, clearly annoyed that they were continuing to bring the killings up within earshot of patrons. They shifted gears from questioning Price to trying to convince him to not show _Don't Look Now_ as the Saturday matinee.

"Naw, see, here's my point," Dean said, leaning against the wall of the ticket booth, the three of them comically oversized for a booth designed for one. "That movie was messed up. Like even the sex scene was kind of… off. You get what I'm saying?"

He was still enunciating clearly enough, but there was a certain skeletal liquidity to Dean's posture that let Sam know they needed to find a motel within walking distance or they'd be sleeping in the car.

Sam tried again. "The point is you have a violent serial…"

"Enjoy your show!" Price said to a couple as he handed over two tickets. He smiled brightly while glaring at Sam.

"… who seems to be motivated by the films you show during the Saturday matinee. So until this case is wrapped up, maybe _don't_ show horror films during that one slot."

"Seriously," Dean added, "who even wants to see a scary movie on a Saturday afternoon? Save that for the midnight horror fest. Saturdays should be for fluffy kids movies."

"We serve alcohol. The Festival does not cater to children."

"So? Everybody loves kids movies. Everybody. Especially when they're drunk."

Sam couldn't think of anything to add so he just nodded in complete agreement. He could _totally_ go for a fluffy, happy kids movie right now. 

"Okay, fine. You've made your point. Until further notice, we here at The Festival will not show any horror movies… "

"Or gangster movies," Dean added

"... or gangster movies during the Saturday matinee."

"Just no movies where people die at all," Sam said. Price seemed like the kind of guy to look for loopholes.

"Agreed."  
   
"Good man," Dean said, patting Price on the back.

They headed back to the bar where Krissy Anne offered them more daiquiris, but even Dean declined. "Do you have any actual food because if I eat any more popcorn today, I'm gonna hurl."

She hooked them up with a couple hot dogs each and Cokes. The food probably cleared his head more than the caffeine, but Sam was grateful for both.

Dean inhaled two dogs before Sam had even finished his first and asked, "So… Carl?"

"Down the hall. Past the bathrooms, past the janitor's closet. There's a door marked 'Staff Only'. That's the stairs to the projection room. You have to be quiet though. The movie is about to start."

Sam grabbed his second hot dog and followed Dean. 

The dark stairs leading to the projection room were the first thing about the Festival that fit the haunted theme. There were no pastel colors or neon lights here. There were no lights at all in fact and Sam felt, more than saw, the peeling paint as he dragged an elbow against the wall to keep his bearings. He protectively tucked his hot dog to his chest to shelter it from the dust and grime. The stairs creaked under their feet at every step, announcing their arrival.

"What?" someone, no doubt Carl, whispered in the dark.

"FBI," Dean said, offering a badge that was barely visible in the gloom.

"Shhhhhh!"

"We have some questions about the recent deaths," Dean whispered.

"Later." Carl pointed at a ratty couch in the corner. 

Rather than argue, Sam and Dean took their seats. The couch reeked of marijuana, but it offered a clear view, just as the title _The Towering Inferno_ appeared on the screen. 

Sam ate his hot dog.

Dean fell asleep.

He didn't even make it to the first fire scene. Dean went from whispering comments about the star cast—"Man, I forgot O.J. was in this"—to snuffling into Sam's shoulder in the space of about five minutes.

Carl shook his head at them and took his spot at the opposite end of the couch. Sam wouldn't have bothered trying to explain that power naps were Dean's superpower, even if he didn't know Carl would just shush him. He instead rescued Dean's Coke before it slipped from his grasp and set it safely out of the way.

The air conditioning didn't seem to work quite as well in the projection room. Sam very slowly and carefully slipped out of his jacket, somehow managing to not wake Dean in the process even after Dean bonked his head on Sam's gun. Carl did a double-take at Sam's shoulder holster, but it kind of went with the FBI badge, so he should have expected it, honestly. 

Carl had to get up every twenty minutes or so to swap reels on the old-fashioned dual-projector setup. Dean must have drifted in and out a little along the way, because at one point, he whimpered, "No, not Steve McQueen," before tucking himself back into Sam's side. 

In the end, Dean expressed satisfaction that Steve McQueen and the cat survived, but was confused about a few other plot points. "Wait, how did Fred Astaire's girlfriend die?"

"I don't know. I think she was the one who fell out of the glass elevator when the window broke. Sometimes it was a little hard to tell who died because the stunt people didn't always match the actors that well."

"All these old movies suck like that," Carl said. 

"Hey, say what you will about the pacing, but 1970s stuntmen kicked ass," Sam said. "Like, there was no CGI back then. That was real fire."

"You're telling me they set actual stunt people on fire?" Carl asked skeptically.

"Yes!"

"Dude. I may need to watch that one again. For real?"

"For real," Sam said. Sam had spent most of the movie deliberately focused on the stunt performers. Thinking about people in fire-retardant stunt gear kept him from thinking about… things he didn't want to think about.

"Anyway, I figure the FBI didn't come here just to watch the late show and cuddle. You had questions?"

Sam gave Dean a sidelong glance waiting to see how he'd respond, but his brother let the comment go.

"Well," Dean said, stretching and interrupting himself with a yawn. "I was going to ask if you saw anything the afternoons of the deaths, but I guess you can't actually see the audience from up here, can you?"

"Naw," Carl agreed. "If you stand up and lean forward, you can see maybe the front third of the house, but why bother? And most people sit in the middle to back half anyway."

"Was that the last movie of the night?" Dean asked, and Carl nodded.

Sam's interest in the questioning was limited by the fact that he had drunk an entire jumbo Coke plus half of Dean's jumbo Coke and he really needed to head back downstairs to the men's room.

Dean's next question stopped him in his tracks though.

"Do you mind if we sleep up here?"

Carl gave them an odd look. "Uh… whatever, I guess."

"Great, we just need to grab our stuff from our car a few blocks away and we'll be right back."

Carl still looked dubious. "Um, sure."

Dean was closer, but Sam beat him to the stairs. "Pit stop first." 

He half expected Dean to go to the car without him, but Dean followed him into the bathroom instead and unzipped alongside him. For such a large theater, The Festival was a bit lacking in urinals. Sam and Dean followed standard dude protocol and took the urinals at opposite ends, but that left only one narrow spot between them. If a third man had entered then, they'd be rubbing elbows. Dean was already shaking it off—not that Sam was actually _looking_ , it was just kind of there—while Sam was still whizzing at full pressure.

"Dude, how much did you drink?"

"On top of the daiquiris, I think the equivalent of three bladders' worth of Coke. I don't even know how that's possible, but it's like movies let you tap into a secret overflow bladder just to handle the jumbo drinks."

For a moment, he could have sworn that Dean was watching him pee and Sam blushed.

"You're a freak, man," Dean said turning away to wash his hands.

"Yeah, probably," Sam agreed.

It wasn't even that late—The Festival didn't do a midnight show on Tuesdays—but Sam felt tired and disoriented. He didn't think he was properly drunk, but he wasn't a hundred percent sober either. It had been a long weird day.

Sam put his jacket back on before walking outside. It was still fairly warm, but he'd worn the shoulder holster just in case they beat the odds and ended up facing a human serial killer after all. It wouldn't do to be walking around in public like that. They didn't need any run-ins with the real authorities.

"I figure we can check the place out tonight once everyone's gone. Hex bags, EMF, whatever."

Sam agreed, but before he could respond, he was distracted by the sound of rain. Not the sound of thunder, but the sound of rain itself. He and Dean shared a perplexed look as they turned to watch a wall of rain approaching. The few people still on the streets at this hour quickly darted inside nearby restaurants or simply made a run for it. "What the…?"

Even those who had chosen to run were soon engulfed in the rainstorm. It was a veritable deluge and Sam and Dean were both soaked to the skin in moments. Sam even made a point of keeping his arm clamped tightly over his gun so he wouldn't have to deal with it getting wet under his jacket. 

Dean stared at him as if he had the answer and repeated, "What the hell?!"

The rain came down so hard that the splashing water stung his eyes and then, as quickly as it arrived, the storm cloud passed over them. He literally watched the trailing edge of the storm as it proceeded down the sidewalk.

"What was _that_?" Dean asked indignantly.

Sam glanced around as people casually exited their hideaways and continued as if nothing had happened.

"Based on everyone's reactions, _that_ was probably perfectly normal weather for this area."

"I hate Florida," Dean said and he turned away and squelched down the sidewalk. "It could rain frogs right now and I wouldn't even be surprised."

The Impala was glistening in the streetlights as they approached and—though he would never say it out loud because it would only encourage Dean's weird anthropomorphism of the car—she looked like she'd enjoyed the rain. The car had been covered in a couple day's worth of road dust from the drive down and now she sparkled again. 

Dean got their sleeping bags and duffels out of the trunk and handed Sam his. They both had to carry them awkwardly at arm's length to avoid getting their things wet. When they returned to the theater, the neon sign was dramatic, beautiful even, after dark, but the door was locked and the lobby lights were off. Dean literally growled and kicked the brass base of the glass door. Sam almost chided him for his temper, but Carl immediately came running and let them in.

"It rained?" Carl asked, taking in their appearance.

"It _monsooned_ ," Dean said.

Sam was tempted to point out that monsoon was not a verb, but he knew Dean wasn't in the mood for it.

"Does it do that a lot here?" Sam asked.

Carl shrugged. "Depends on what you mean by a lot. We hold the record for 361 consecutive days of sunshine. But when it does rain? Yeah, it's like the clouds know they only have so much time so they better dump it all at once, y'know."

Dean made a noncommittal noise that Carl may have interpreted as agreement, but which Sam translated as "Fuck Florida" and walked over to set his things down on the snack bar. He began drying himself off with a wad of napkins, which Sam thought was ridiculously ineffectual, but he didn't have any better ideas so he did the same thing.

"So, Carl," Dean said, trying to regain a friendly tone. "Do you have any theories? What caused four different movie patrons to die four different ways, all during your Saturday matinee?"

"Duh. Serial killer. Why else is the FBI here? If you thought it was just coincidence and unrelated crime, you'd be letting the local police handle it."

"Yeah, I haven't had time to read that file yet. Did the local police hint at what they thought?"

"Natural causes, natural causes, gang initiation, and crazed drug addict."

"Crazed drug addict?" Sam asked, still dabbing himself with napkins and shivering slightly as the air-conditioning overpowered him.

"Yeah, bath salts like that face-eater in Miami a while back."

"Except the perp in the Miami case turned out to not have any 'bath salts' in his system," Sam said. "The whole 'bath salts' hysteria at the time was speculation."

"Oh, I remember that one," Dean said. "That was actually… " 

"... a bizarre _unsolved_ mystery," Sam said.

"Anyway, this one's got to be a serial killer though, right?" Carl said. "I figure the first two were poisoned to look like natural causes, but it's all the same killer."

"Serial killers tend not to vary this much in their methods," Dean said. "They favor consistency. That's kind of how they end up getting names like The Slasher and The Strangler."

"Yeah, maybe this one's The Surpriser," Carl suggested with an awkward laugh. "So, you're really going to sleep here tonight? I mean, I know the killer only strikes on Saturdays, but this place gives me the creeps after closing, even before all this started. It just feels wrong for a theater to ever be empty and quiet, y'know."

"Don't worry about us," Dean said. "I'll plug in a nightlight if Sam gets scared."

Sam didn't have the energy to huff. He just rolled his eyes and dabbed at his hair with another handful of napkins.

"Okay, so Krissy Anne and Mr. Price have already taken off for the night. Mr. Price took the night's cash with him as usual so you shouldn't have to worry about anyone trying to break in, but Mr. Price insists I set the alarm anyway, so don't touch the doors until he gets here tomorrow. He's usually in around noon."

"It's not a motion sensor, is it?" Sam asked.

"Naw, he tried that once. Too many false alarms. I think the palmetto bugs set them off. The current system only goes off if someone opens a door or a window. So just sit tight and you're good."

They waved Carl goodbye and Sam watched as nonchalantly as possible while he set the alarm. If it used the same code to deactivate it, Sam was pretty sure they could leave whenever they wanted without the alarm going off.

Lit only by the outside streetlights through the glass doors, the theater took on a more ominous feel.

"Palmetto bugs are those bitch-ass flying cockroaches, aren't they?" Dean asked.

"Yup."

"I _hate_ Florida."

"So the plan is to search the _entire_ theater for hex bags before calling it a night?" Sam asked. He really hoped the answer was no. The theater was so much larger than a typical modern cinema. 

"I'm not doing anything until I have dry clothes on," Dean said. Sam should have been used to Dean not answering his questions directly by now, but it still grated somewhat. When he was younger, he thought Dean was just being a control freak. Over the years, he'd learned it more often meant that Dean hadn't made up his mind yet and didn't want to admit it—which, in a way, still made him a control freak. 

He followed Dean into the men's room where they changed into dry clothes and left their wet things draped over every hook, door, and flat surface in the hope that it would be dry by the next day.

Once re-clothed, they started with Price's office, which was locked, but that only slowed them down by half a minute while Dean picked the lock. The office was barely worth the effort. It was small and windowless. There was an old copy machine in one corner and a table with cash drawers sitting on it, out in the open. The higher slots had been cleaned out, leaving only the fives and ones and coins. Price was clearly preparing for the next day and would likely restock them with even more coins after his bank run. 

On the opposite side of the room was a desk with nothing on it but a computer monitor. Sam reached down and turned on the computer under the desk while Dean poked around for hex bags. After a few moments, Dean shrugged, "Nothing. You?"

"You're a bad influence," Sam said, clicking through Price's browser history.

"Meaning?"

"All of his porn looks really tame in comparison."

Dean scoffed, but he ruined it by smiling. Jerk was proud of himself. He pulled out his EMF scanner and flicked it on. There was a faint squeal, but just having the computer on could account for it. Nothing to get excited about. Dean pointed it towards the lobby and followed the increasing noise out of the office.

Sam powered down the computer and carefully locked the office back up the way they found it.

"Oh, bingo," Dean said when he opened the doors to the house. The EMF went nuts. Sam had to pull out his flashlight as the doors swung closed behind them. Even the decorative recessed lighting had been switched off for the night. Only the fire exit signs were illuminated. "Damn, that's a lot of seats."

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

"Definitely seems ghosty though," Dean said. "So hex bags are less likely."

"On the other hand, four people died here recently, two of them violently, so the EMF could be residual from that." Sam kind of wanted to tell himself to shut up. He had no idea why he was arguing for a more thorough search. A simple salt-n-burn would be less work than tangling with a witch.

"Yeah," Dean said, "we'll need to sweep it for hex bags in the morning."

Sam sighed with relief. Morning, he could deal with. "So? Rock-paper-scissors for Carl's couch?"

"Nah, that's all yours if you want it. I think I still have a mild contact high from that thing."

Sam laughed. "I thought it was the blue daiquiris, but you might have a point." He swept his flashlight toward the front of the theater. "No one ever sits in the front row. That patch of floor is probably as clean as any. Ready to bunk down with a ghost?"

Dean agreed and went and got their sleeping bags from where they'd left them on the snack bar. Sam turned out to be right. The front of the theater was fairly clean and there was more than enough space in front of the first row for them to lay out their bags side by side on the floor. It was hardly the most comfortable place he had ever slept, and knowing he was sleeping at the site of four unexplained deaths, and likely an active haunting, should have made things worse. Yet Sam found himself drifting off almost as soon as he'd gotten into his bag. Dean was still talking. Something about a storeroom that they needed to search in the morning and which witnesses they ought to track down tomorrow.

" _And_ the best part—are you listening to me?"

"Mm-hmm," Sam said, because it was true. He _was_ listening to Dean's voice, deep and soothing in the dark, even if the words weren't all making sense entirely.

" _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_." When Sam didn't reply, Dean nudged him in the side. "Did you hear me?"

" _Butch and Sundance_ ," Sam repeated without enthusiasm. "Awesome."

"On the big screen," Dean said. "This place _is_ awesome. After we gank this ghost or witch or whatever it is, we should stick around for a bit. We've earned a vacation."

"Thought you hated Florida."

"We'll just stay inside where it's air conditioned."

"Mm-hmm."

Somewhere around three in the morning, Sam realized that Dean had jinxed them again. He woke up drenched in sweat, with a mouth that felt full of cotton. He had managed to kick his way out of his sleeping bag in his sleep, but that didn't help with the clothing. He felt like he'd die if he didn't get something to drink, so he fumbled for the flashlight and staggered to his feet.

Dean had apparently already had the revelation that the air conditioning was turned off at night. The beam of the flashlight revealed his brother sprawled on top of his sleeping bag in nothing but his tighty-whities. Sam nobly resisted the urge to slap Dean on the butt. He would have deserved it. 

Instead, he trudged up the aisle of the theater. He did _not_ resist the slightly nervous impulse to sweep the beam of the flashlight around the empty space, half expecting a spectral nightmare to pop out at him. Although, the more he thought about it, the more he decided he might appreciate some cold spots. "Feel free to drop the temperature a few degrees," he announced to any spirits who might be listening. 

He switched the flashlight off as he stepped into the lobby. It was still fairly dark, but not the pitch black of the theater and his light would be easily seen through the glass doors. Even with his FBI badge, he didn't need the local police showing up to what would look like a break in. The lingering scent of popcorn only made Sam's stomach turn in the heat. Guided by the glow of the drink dispenser, he found a cup and half-filled it with Sprite. It was too sugary for his taste, but all the other options were caffeinated and he was jittery enough as it was. Only after guzzling it down and letting out a belch that would have impressed Dean if he'd been awake, did Sam realize that the theater must have water as well. A quick search produced a refrigerated case of water bottles—and zero hex bags since as long as he was looking, he might as well be thorough. He made a mental note to pay for it in the morning and then glanced at the price list and promptly erased the mental note. 

He was tired, stiff and sore from sleeping on the floor, yet restless from the unsolved case and possibly a nightmare that he couldn't quite remember. Had he had a nightmare? He wasn't sure. He only knew he'd awoken unsettled and anxious, perhaps with nothing more than the heat to blame. Lying back down next to his sweaty, mostly naked brother was not going to help.

He took a swig of water and considered his options. He padded around the corner barefoot, just a reflexive need to step away from the windows, to hide in the shadows. On a whim, he went into the women's bathroom, one place they couldn't easily search during the day. He flipped the light switch and instantly regretted it. The bright fluorescent lights were painful to his eyes. 

He groaned and walked half-blind to the opposite wall, eyes pinched nearly shut. He would have expected the ladies' room to have more toilets replacing the urinals of the men's room, but instead the room was simply smaller. It was claustrophobically narrow or perhaps it was still just the heat getting to Sam. There was a handicapped stall at the end, beyond two regular stalls, but it didn't appear to be accessible by wheelchair given the lack of maneuvering room. On the positive side, it was a very small space to search. He hesitantly peered inside the waste bins and was relieved to find them empty with fresh liners in place. In the name of thoroughness, he even lifted off the tops of the toilet tanks to verify no hex bags or sigils were hiding there.

The only thing left to search was the tampon dispenser on the wall. Technically only one-third of it was a tampon dispenser. One-third was labeled SANITARY NAPKINS, which had always struck Sam as a very odd phrase. The remaining third was labelled with a flowery script that said _Light Days Panty Liners_ which was crossed with  OUT OF STOCK hand printed in Sharpie beneath it. 

It was coin operated and had a lock on the side. He'd left everything that might help him pick the lock back by his sleeping bag. 

It was simultaneously a trivial and a discouraging distance. _So tired_ , he thought for the millionth time. His eyes were drawn to his reflection in the mirror. _Gross_. He looked nearly as bad as he felt. Circles under his eyes and messed up hair and hangdog expression. He leaned forward until his forehead rested on the glass. It provided cool relief, but since he couldn't sleep standing up like this, it wasn't a useful solution.

Sam huffed out a warm breath of condensation on the mirror, but it stubbornly refused to frost over. "Here, ghosty-ghosty-ghosty," he laughed weakly.

_What is wrong with me?_ It was just a little heat and humidity. Sam had survived literal hellfire. Frankly, Sam Winchester's life was peaches and cream even if he didn't bother to compare it to the lowest spots in his history. Dean was markless. They had averted the end of the world _again_. His mother was _alive_. Castiel was Castiel again. Everything was damn near perfect, or as perfect as it was ever going to get in the life of a hunter. So why the hell wasn't he happy?

"Sam!" Dean's voice cried out in the distance. Loud, urgent, a hint of panic at the edges, and there was Sam without a single weapon on him. "Sammy!"

Sam ran out of the restroom into the now staggeringly dim hallway, his eyes no longer adapted for the dark. He turned toward where'd he'd left Dean, but then heard his brother's voice coming from behind and above—the projection room. He spun and ran back in that direction, fumbling for the flashlight and the door at the same time. He pulled the door open and managed to switch on the flashlight just in time to illuminate Dean, wide-eyed and breathless, his gun pointed right in Sam's face.

"Sam!"

Sam aimed the flashlight over Dean's shoulder, trying to see what was chasing him, but saw nothing. Dean meanwhile aimed his gun over Sam's shoulder with such convincing concentration that Sam instantly believed that something was behind _him_ and he spun around in a full circle before returning his focus on Dean.

"Dean, what? What was it?"

"You tell me!" Dean barked.

Dean was still naked. Well, mostly naked, standing there on the stairs with nothing but his underwear and gun.

"What?" Sam was befuddled. He was usually faster at assessing a situation than this.

"What had you?" Dean asked, his gun pulled up, but his finger still at the ready alongside the trigger guard.

"Nothing had me. You're the one who screamed. I thought something was attacking _you_."

"I didn't scr—I was calling for _you_."

"Why?" Sam's heart was still racing, but he'd firmly transitioned from scared to irritated.

Dean huffed and straightened up, his gun finally pointed at the ground. He was still a few steps up, which gave him a rare height advantage over Sam, although still being in his underwear kind of diminished whatever authoritative air he was going for.

"Because you were missing," Dean growled. "I woke up and you were gone, but your shoes were right there, like you'd been dragged off or something, and I looked for you and you weren't anywhere so I tried the only place I hadn't looked yet, the storeroom upstairs, only you still weren't there."

It had never occurred to Sam that Dean would worry if he woke up alone. He was genuinely touched.

"And you can wipe that damned puppy-dog look off your stupid face!" Dean yelled. "Where were you?!"

"Uh, the women's restroom?" Sam didn't mean for it to come out as a question. 

Dean's eyes briefly trailed down Sam's body before flicking back up to his face. "Not even going there."

"I don't mean—"

" _Not_ going there. This is me being the better person and not going there."

"I was searching it for hex bags."

"At three o'clock in the morning?"

"Well, I figured we should do it before Krissy Anne got into work tomorrow and I couldn't sleep because I was hot."

Dean huffed again. "Tell me about it," he said, unnecessarily waving at his bare chest which was already at Sam's eye level. 

If Sam stared a little too long and perhaps felt a certain stirring, it was nothing he hadn't habituated himself to push aside.

"Come here. I want to show you something," Dean said and turned back up the stairs, giving Sam little choice other than to follow a few steps behind, Dean's butt directly in front of his eyeline the whole way.

Dean led him to a storage room behind the projection room. It was full of film reel cans in racks and more projection equipment. Fluorescent tubes lit the place up even brighter than the women's bathroom.

Dean gestured around the room. "Huh? Huh?" 

Sam wasn't sure what he was supposed to be reacting to. On a table near the door, three stacks of film cans had been wiped free of dust: _Shaft_ , _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ , and _Let's Scare Jessica to Death_. 

"Yeah, I'm not really into this triple feature," Sam said, feeling a bit uneasy.

" _Butch and Sundance_ is the 6ᴘᴍ show," Dean said. "Come all the way in. Close the door."

Sam did as instructed.

"Huh?" Dean repeated, again waving around the room like Sam should be impressed by something, more specifically like Sam should be patting Dean on the head for having found the awesome thing. But… it was three in the frigging morning and Sam's brain had checked out as soon as he'd realized there was no immediate crisis.

He walked deeper into the shelves and shelves of film cans. The room was huge, taking up the same space as the lobby, office, and bathrooms below combined. "How many titles you figure they have here?" he asked, hoping Dean would just get to the point instead of trying to prompt him into a game of twenty questions.

"Dunno. Probably not as many as it looks at first. Each film is several reels."

As Sam walked further into the first aisle, he felt a chill. Suddenly alert again, he spun around looking for other signs of spirit activity. And then he noticed Dean smiling. 

"Huh?" Dean prompted.

"Oh, my God, it's climate controlled to preserve the film."

Dean handed Sam his gun. "I'm going to go get our sleeping bags."

The rows between the shelving were narrow so they couldn't sleep side by side. Sam expected Dean to bed down in another row, but he instead took up a position perpendicular to Sam, directly in front of the door. Sam would have to step on his brother to get out of the room. "No, that's not controlling at all," he muttered under his breath.

Sam was just starting to drift off, when Dean announced, "We should have brought Castiel."

It sort of set Sam's teeth on edge, which didn't make sense, because he liked Castiel. If you discounted Dean by virtue of DNA, Castiel was technically Sam's best friend. And seeing as how he was a best friend with superpowers and a head full of thousands of years of lore, it wasn't unreasonable that Dean would want him on a hunt. "He'd make searching the theater go faster," Sam agreed.

"Could probably use his mojo to locate any spells without even having to search," Dean said, sleepily. "This place is just way bigger than I expected."

"Why don't you call him?" Sam asked.

"Just might." 

Dean was otherwise silent so after another moment, Sam piped up, "Why don't you call him now?"

"Now? It's the middle of the night. No need to bother the guy now."

"Does he sleep? He's got his juice back, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, well, I'm sure Mom's asleep even if he isn't. His ringtone is set to this loud-ass Katy Perry song."

"Okay, number one, I'm pretty sure that you're the one who put the Katy Perry ringtone on his phone and, two, you could just pray."

"This isn't a praying situation," Dean said.

"What you're religious now? It has to be important enough before you can pray?"

" _You_ pray then."

"He's _your_ boyfriend."

"Bitch, please."

"' _More profound bond,_ ' whatever, jerk."

"Shut up and go to sleep."

And Sam tried to let it go and sleep. He really did. It was possibly even the fact that he was drifting into a twilight haze that prompted him to open his mouth and insert his foot.

"You know that Mom would be okay with it," Sam said.

He heard Dean shifting around in his sleeping bag and he knew without looking that Dean was giving him that 'freak' stare that he reserved for whenever Sam said something dumb. "Sam, what in the hell are you talking about?"

"You and Castiel. You could tell Mom. She'd be okay with it. When she heard about marriage equality, she was kind of shocked—but, y'know, in a good way. She's very progressive for a woman of her time."

"I'm sorry; what _exactly_ about Castiel am I supposed to be telling Mom?"

" _Profound bond_ ," Sam repeated. 

"Is this some kind of weird jealous thing because you think Castiel likes me more than you?"

"You like Castiel more than you like me, too," Sam said. _That_ was definitely the sleep deprivation talking.

"That's not true," Dean insisted. "You know that you are _the_ most important person in my life."

"I don't mind. I mean, seriously, all teasing aside, I'm happy for you that you have someone special in your life—even if you are too neurotic to admit it. I kind of envy you guys to tell you the truth. The single life gets lonely sometimes."

"I am not—we are not—we never—and you have no reason to be lonely! I'm here for you, all the time!"

"It's not really the same thing," Sam said, sorry he'd ever brought the subject up.

"We never, Castiel and I, we never—why would you even think that?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know. A decade of eye fucking. Seriously, you never went there? Not even once?"

Dean shifted around in his sleeping bag and when he spoke again he no longer sounded like he was facing Sam. "So, first thing in the morning, we do _not_ call Castiel. We are perfectly capable of doing a sweep for magical artifacts on our own. You can make one of those whatsits out of string that you were telling me that you'd read about. That would work like a dowsing rod for magic fields, right?"

"That book was modern fiction and I haven't found the source lore verifying that it even predates the turn of the Millennium. I just said it _sounded_ like an idea worth trying sometime."

"Perfect opportunity to test it then. We also should drop in on the local police. See if they've turned up any new leads. And I want to talk to that girl Sophie and it might be worth dropping in on Grandpa Price. Crazy old people sometimes surprise you with what they know."

"Oh, my God," Sam groaned, "you've successfully changed the subject. You can stop talking now."

"We also need to find a motel room. I'm not sleeping on this floor again."

"Agreed."

"And when the case is done, we're hitting the beach."

"I thought you hated Florida."

"But we're here so we might as well make the most of it. Sand between our toes, Sammy."  
 

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	3. Rise and Shine, Princess

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

   
Sam awoke with a rare feeling of calm. Lying prone on the floor with only the thin cushion of his sleeping bag should not have been comfortable, but he was in that muzzy haze of morning where his "bed" was too inviting to leave despite the nagging sense of a busy day ahead. The allure of sleep won and he drifted in and out of consciousness over the course of several minutes or possibly hours. The storeroom had no windows so Sam had no way to measure time without making the effort of sitting up and digging out his phone, which he had exactly zero inclination to do.

He became consciously aware of a gentle pressure on his head only after it moved. Dean's fingers ruffled his hair. "Morning sleepy head," Dean said. "Time to get up."

"Uh-uh," Sam murmured, willing Dean's fingers to stop moving, to return to just resting upon Sam's head. Had he imagined that? Had Dean been touching him all morning? On purpose or had Dean's hand just kind of landed on Sam's head in the night?

Dean stopped ruffling and started poking. "Morning. Morning. Morning. Morning. Time to get up. Time to get up. Time to get up. Wakey. Wakey. Wakey."

"I'm going to tell Mom that you're being mean to me," Sam muttered.

Dean laughed and stopped poking. He ruffled Sam's hair one more time and then his hand stilled and, yes, that was the familiar feeling he had woken to, Dean's hand cradling his head. 

"How awesome is our life, Sam? Did you ever even _imagine_ that we'd get a happy ending?"

Sam felt an inexplicable pang. It was part fear, knowing Lucifer was still out there somewhere and Sam had never had so much to lose, but it was mostly a sadness he couldn't define, which was quickly overshadowed by guilt. What kind of ungrateful shit was he that you could grant him his biggest wish and he was still unsatisfied? His mother was back from the dead; he should be dancing on rainbows.

Dean patted his head one last time and then the hand moved to Sam's shoulder and shook it.

"Come on. Rise and shine, Princess. Theater to search. Witnesses to interview. Local police to intimidate. Motel room to find and check into. And we have to be done before six tonight because I am not missing _Butch and Sundance_ on the big screen. With daiquiris. I saw yellow ones. What flavor do you think the yellow ones are? Lemon or pineapple?" 

Sam still hadn't figured out what flavor the blue ones were supposed to be and he didn't particularly care one way or the other. He sat up and stretched, stood and stretched again. He made no attempt at all to disguise the tent in his sweatpants. His dick liked mornings even if he didn't and if Dean wasn't going to give him space to wake up at his leisure in private, then Dean could face the consequences.

Dean sat up and then recoiled slightly from his proximity to Sam's bulge. "Someone woke up happy."

Sam shrugged. "'Rise and shine,'" he quoted. Now is when he would normally escape into the motel bathroom for a bracing shower, but aside from not having a shower at the theater, Dean was still sitting in his path to the exit. He had no choice than to just stand there and play it cool until Dean felt like moving.

"So your dick's name is 'Princess' now?" Dean smirked while _looking right at Sam's crotch_. Sam's dick twitched and Dean flinched back, the smirk instantly replaced by horror.

Dean somehow managed to stand and grab up his sleeping bag in one fluid motion and was out the door in under two seconds. 

Sam took a deep breath. Denial was Dean Winchester's greatest superpower so Sam wasn't even particularly worried that they would ever mention this again, but that didn't stop the voice in his head from telling him, _Damn, son, you need to get laid by a real human, like soon. You're starting to get weird_. 

The voice in Sam's head sounded exactly like Dean.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

   
A trip to the bathroom added _Find a dry cleaner_ to their task list for the day. Their clothes had not only failed to dry, they had picked up a musty quality overnight. 

They did a quick sweep of the theater for hex bags. Sam had a brief moment of victory. "Found it!" before he realized that what he'd pulled out of the sofa cushions was just Carl's stash.

Dean declared he was starving to death long before any of the theater employees showed up for the day, so they packed up their things and overrode the security alarm and slipped out.

It was nearly eleven by the time they sat down at a small diner down the street, but Dean refused to even look at the lunch menu. "The first meal of the day is eggs and bacon and coffee as God intended."

Sam scoffed at first, but the garden omelet was amazing and the coffee soothed his soul. He settled back into that odd place of being _almost_ happy. He didn't think there was a word for the feeling because he didn't think it was logical for anyone to ever feel that way.

"What if we just took the day off?" Sam asked right as Dean was shoveling in another mouthful.

Dean paused and squinted at him.

"We're not in a hurry, right? And we're not interviewing anyone today without our Fed suits. What if we just dropped our stuff off at the cleaners, found a motel with a pool, and, y'know, took the rest of the day off?" 

The pool especially seemed inviting. Sam figured he'd spent half his childhood going _Look! They have a pool!_ as Dad drove past and pulled into some pool-less fleabag instead. Or just as disappointing, staying at a place with a pool that was already closed for the season. Or freezing in an unheated pool because he couldn't admit to Dean that it really had been too cold to swim. Cold would not be a problem today; he was already starting to sweat into his clothing against the diner's vinyl seats.

Dean shrugged. He swallowed his eggs and then said, "We should go shopping. Get some lighter-weight Fed suits. Linen. Miami Vice it."

"Good idea. Just no pastels."

"You don't think you'd look pretty in pink, Princess?"

That conversation that they were never ever going to have again flashed through Sam's mind and he blushed.

Dean snorted into his coffee, coughed twice, and then worked into a full laugh. "Oh, my God, you _actually_ named your penis 'Princess'?"

Sam spared an embarrassed glance around the restaurant to make sure no one was listening and leaned in before hissing, "No, _you_ named my dick 'Princess' and I will never forgive you."

Dean was still laughing uncontrollably when the waitress dropped off the check.

"Whatever," Sam said, tossing cash on the table as he stood. "It's still a better name than 'Little Dean'."

Dean was halfway up and fell back into his seat in another fit of giggles so Sam just walked out and left him there. He didn't even wait by the car. He remembered spotting a dry cleaner a few blocks away so he drove over. Dean was a big boy; he could figure out where he'd gone. The Impala blinking in the 10-minute zone out front would be hard to miss.

Indeed, Dean walked in just as the clerk was handing Sam his receipt. He didn't look particularly contrite, nor, to Sam's surprise, did he even look annoyed. He had a terrible feeling Dean might actually start giggling again if he wasn't careful.  
   
The dry cleaner was oppressively hot despite large box fans stationed strategically around the storefront. Sam took his receipt and quickly stepped outside where it was oppressively hot in a _different_ way that at least didn't feel laced with chemicals.

"I booked us a hotel," Dean announced. "Ocean view _and_ a kitchenette. For a full week. We wrap this up and we've earned our vacation."

"Sounds like a plan," Sam agreed.

It turned out that the plan that Sam had agreed to meant _not_ taking the day off because Dean insisted on shopping first.

Sam found a really nice white linen suit, but Dean wouldn't let him buy it because he said he looked like Lucifer and then got really morose when Sam asked when Lucifer had ever worn a white suit. They ended up in matching khaki pants, black ties, and short-sleeve white dress shirts and they both agreed it was worth the risk of not wearing guns if that meant they didn't have to wear jackets in the heat. 

Badges in their back pockets, they stopped by the police station and asked for the lead detective in charge of the case. That ultimately involved talking to two separate sets of detectives as the shooting and the "hatchet" death were being handled by two teams, neither of which thought the other case relevant. Colby and Johnson were handling the shooting death as routine. Meanwhile, Rivera and Richards insisted the dismemberment was unique and completely unrelated to the other incidents. They acquired zero useful information and wasted much of the afternoon.

"Where next?" Sam asked. "Grandpa Price or Sophie?"

Dean shrugged and flipped a coin. But fate was not on their side and they weren't able to track Sophie down anyway, so they left messages and then drove down to Price's nursing home.

The staff all commented how _nice_ it was that Mr. Price had visitors, although, from their demeanor,  _nice_ just meant _unexpected_ and they were largely indifferent to the presence of two strange men in the activity room. The air conditioning had been set for the comfort of the elderly residents who were easily chilled—or perhaps it just didn't work very well—leaving Sam just slightly too warm.

Price, for his part, was more lucid than they'd hoped, but so slow and measured in speaking that Sam could see Dean repeatedly having to bite back the impulse to interrupt. Realizing this would take a while, they pulled up a couple of chairs next to Price's wheelchair and let the man tell them his stories.

"Beautiful theater. Beautiful. But a disaster financially from the start. Back then, back then people went to the movie houses every week. Kids would spend the whole afternoon watching double features and they'd come back and see the same favorites again and again. I built it for that, you know. A cultural centerpiece of the community. My wife would dress up like it was a gala event for every opening that first year. Lovely woman, my wife, but she had her stubborn streak…"

Price spent a good twenty minutes talking about his late wife before they ascertained that she'd died peacefully of natural causes after a long life and was not a spectral suspect. They gradually steered the subject back to the theater. 

"I just hadn't predicted that television would take off the way it did, you see. And then the VHS and the CD videos."

"DVDs," Sam corrected wearily. He had nearly made peace with the fact that the entire day was going in extra boring slow-motion. Across the dayroom, two old women were putting together a jigsaw puzzle. He had the surreal feeling that they had always been there and a thousand years from now would still be working on the same puzzle.

"So it was just never the big draw that I expected. And Helen, she tried, bless her, but it was only her and her friends dressing up. Frankly, it was a little embarrassing, drawing so much attention to my least successful project. I focused on my other properties. Probably should have sold the theater, but Helen was fond of it. It usually broke even, because people still came out, just not very many people. We never once filled it to capacity. Considered turning it into a multiplex, but the cost of reconstruction on that scale was just throwing good money after bad. Seriously considered turning it into condominiums at that point, if you're going to gut the interior anyway, you might as well put in something you can make money on."

Dean nodded and said, "Absolutely," but rolled his eyes at Sam. This interview was going nowhere. 

"Mr. Price said—that is Andrew, your grandson—said the movie collection was personally curated by his father. That would be your son? Was your son…" Sam trailed off, trying to rephrase a question about violent death and vengeful spirits. "Does your son still live in the area?"

"No. He moved away after the divorce. Didn't see much of him until…" Price looked around to make sure none of the other residents were listening. "He got _the cancer_ ," Price whispered. "Died when Andrew was still a boy. They were never close, but Andrew likes to imagine Scott as being a bit more… important than he was. You know how kids are. 'My dad can beat up your dad.' That kind of thing. He thinks his father ran the theater. But the truth…" 

Old Mr. Price cast another sidelong glance at the other residents, but he didn't bother to lower his voice this time. This revelation apparently less scandalous to him than admitting Scott had died of _the cancer_. "Scott was kind of a screw-up. He was a nice kid. He meant well. Dumber than a rock. Helen thought it was our fault. We spoiled him when he was little, let him think he could have whatever he wanted. We tried to teach him restraint as he got older. You have to _earn_ things. We're not just going to give you everything your whole life. But if you didn't give it to Scott, he just took it. Never money. He never believed he was stealing. I don't think I ever got him to understand he was doing anything wrong. Dumber than a rock, like I said."

"Excuse me, one moment," Dean said standing up. "Keep going. I'm sure my partner wants to hear all about this. I just need to…" Dean pointed vaguely towards the door and then left.

Sam had no idea if Dean was just excusing himself to pee or if there was a nurse he wanted to flirt with or if he'd spotted a legitimate lead and needed Sam to stall while he investigated.

"So, where were we?" Sam said, trying his best to look interested.

"Scott was a screw-up," the old man announced cheerfully.

What felt like several years later, Sam was rescued by a woman in flower-print scrubs who announced it was dinner time.

He found Dean in the parking lot, pacing near the Impala. Sam watched as, twice, Dean started to lean on the car out of habit and then flinched away from the heat. Dean's shirt was visibly damp at the armpits and he'd developed a musk that should have been disgusting, but it was really just extra-Dean-scented.

"So, dinner first and then the movie?" Dean asked. "Or do you just want to do dogs and nachos during the movie?"

"Thanks for all your help in there, by the way," Sam said, folding himself into the car.

"Eh, Grampa Simpson wasn't getting us anywhere," Dean said. He pulled out of the parking lot, seemingly unconcerned that Sam hadn't offered an opinion on dinner. "Talked to a few nurses. No one visits the old guy other than a weekly church group. His bills are paid for by his own trust fund. He complains about the cost of everything, but seems to always have money to cover it."

"Yeah, I got that vibe, too," Sam said. "He's the kind of guy who thinks he's middle class because half the guys at his exclusive country club have more money than he does."

"Right, well-off enough, but I don't smell any demon deals or witchcraft in this guy's history. Nobody sacrifices a chicken for a moderately successful used car lot and a few apartment buildings. Did that story about Andrew's father go anywhere?"

"Not… really," Sam said, aware of something tugging at the back of his mind.

"What?" Dean asked, catching the hesitation.

"So, Scott was kind of dumb and impulsive."

"Yeah, I was there for the 'dumb as a rock' part."

"He had trouble understanding professional boundaries. Worked at the old man's car lot and took the new cars on joy rides, cruising for chicks… or possibly not chicks. The old guy dropped a few hints that Scott only married Andrew's mother for respectability points. Anyway, worked at one of his father's restaurants and gave away free booze to his friends. Worked out of his father's real estate office and threw a wild party at one of the properties he was supposed to be selling. So, he didn't end up working at the theater because he was a film buff like Andrew implied. It was just the business where the old man figured he could do the least damage. He just accepted that his son was going to let friends in for free and give away popcorn."

"Okay, but… so what?"

"I don't know. It was sort of on the tip of my tongue and now I've lost it. It was something about the air conditioning. Having the AC run 24/7 in the film room because it raised their electric bill. He blamed Scott, but it didn't make sense how that was Scott's fault. I don't know; I can't think anymore. It's like my brain is overheating in the sun."

"You need to eat," Dean announced. "We have just enough time to grab a burger at the diner before the movie starts. Tomorrow, I want to go up to Tarpon Springs for dinner. It's like an entire town of Greek food."

"But then you'll miss the movie," Sam teased.

"Eh, they're doing artsy Woody Allen crap tomorrow. I'll take gyros and souvlaki over that."  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

They checked into the hotel, left the car in the lot, and walked over to the theater, partly because Sam suspected Dean wanted to overdo the rum again and partly because Sam needed to walk off the giant burger that Dean had talked him into ordering for dinner.

The combination of the meal and the walk did him good because as soon as they stepped into the air conditioned lobby, it clicked. He snapped his fingers, "Got it! It wasn't the air conditioning in the film room that was bugging me. It was the film room itself. Why is it even there?"

"Because… this is a movie theater?"

Before he could explain, a young man they hadn't seen before called out to them from the box office. "Yo, man, you have to buy tickets before you just walk in like that."

"Looks like they found a replacement for Sophie," Sam said.

They approached the booth where the man announced, "Six dollars."

"Actually," Dean began, but when Sam realized he was about to pull out his FBI badge, Sam stopped him.

"The movie is on me. My treat."

"Aw, big spender. Buy me a daiquiri too and you might get lucky tonight."

The guy smirked as he handed Sam their tickets, but Sam couldn't think of a single comeback.

He cleared his throat and told Dean, "Actually, you can get the drinks and popcorn. I want to check something out." 

"What flavor daiquiri?"

"Surprise me."

Dean shrugged and went to greet Krissy Anne—who, Sam suspected, would probably just hook them up for free anyway, such were Dean's flirtation skills—while Sam wandered the lobby looking at the movie posters on the walls.

He joined Dean at the snack bar just as Krissy Anne was setting down two fishbowl glasses each roughly the size of Sam's head. "Wow."

"I know, right?"

The color was almost brown and although he knew he'd said _surprise me_ , he was now a little dubious. "What flavor are they?"

"Cola."

"Cola flavored daiquiris?"

"Basically cuba libre slushies," Dean said. "There is a non-zero chance that we have actually died and gone to heaven and, you know what, I don't even care."

Sam tried to get Krissy Anne's attention. "Can I ask a question?"

But she had already moved on to the paying customers who were lined up.

"What's up?" Dean asked. He picked up a bucket of popcorn which he nestled in one arm, and grabbed one of the drinks.

Sam grabbed the other drink and walked into the screening room. A handful of people were already seated and Sam walked around to each of them and introduced himself. "Hi. I'm doing a marketing study and I was wondering how you heard about tonight's film?" 

He probably didn't look terribly professional with a giant drink in his hand, but it didn't really matter what people thought of him. Dean gave up on him as soon as he realized it was going to be boring and instead staked out good seats for the show. 

Sam stood by the door and asked his "marketing" questions of everyone as they entered. When the lights started to dim, he joined Dean.

"What…?"

"I need to check something on the computer later to be sure, but I think Daddy Scott was not the only one a little bit shady here at The Festival."

There was exactly one advertisement before the movie began and it looked like a Powerpoint slideshow that Price himself must have made to advertise the snack bar. It pretty much confirmed Sam's theory, but then the movie was starting, so explaining it to Dean would have to wait.

Sam had seen _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ before, at least twice, but never on a big screen without commercial interruption. He knew Dean loved it because of his near fetishizing of the fast-talking, hyper-masculine Hollywood cowboy. Watching it now, Sam realized there was more to it than that. That knife fight scene? Totally Dean. Shamelessly flirting with Sundance's girlfriend? Dean. The leap of faith? Dean. And dying guns blazing? Probably also Dean someday.

"That was possibly the greatest movie ever made," Dean announced as the house lights came up. "Top five at least."

"That," Sam said, not really disagreeing, but still quite unsettled, "was not a happy ending."

"It was the happiest ending they were likely to have," Dean said. "They went out together in a blaze of glory. Everybody's gotta die someday."

"No free double features," the man from the box office said. He was walking the aisles picking up discarded popcorn buckets. "You have to go out and buy another ticket if you want to stay for the next show."

"Want to stay for the next show, Sundance?" Dean asked.

"No. And you're Sundance." 

"I always thought of myself more as Butch."

"You're Butch _and_ Sundance," Sam insisted.

"Does that make you Etta?"

"Kiss my butt."

"Let's stay for the next show, Etta."

"Kiss _all_ of my butt."

"Hey, um," Dean said, waving at the guy cleaning the theater. "Dude, I didn't get your name."

Box office guy looked up suspiciously, clearly uncertain about getting too friendly with the drunk guys.

"Lamar," Lamar said hesitantly.

"Hey, Lamar, what's the next show?"

" _Let's Scare Jessica To Death_."

Dean blinked and then said, "Maybe not."

They went back out to the lobby and Dean got Krissy Anne to refresh the dregs of his cuba libre slushie by adding a normal-sized cherry daiquiri to it.

Sam declined a similar offer, but Dean still insisted he try a sip of his. He seemed very proud of having invented a cherry coke daiquiri. 

They stood at the end of the snack bar and ate popcorn and "nachos" (stale chips covered in reheated cheese dip) while Krissy Anne served patrons arriving early for the next film. _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ had a runtime just under two hours, so with Price's lazy scheduling, these folks would have an hour to go waiting for the night's horror show. Yet no one that they talked to seemed deterred.

The lobby grew downright claustrophobic as the evening crowd spread out and Sam finally started to see how the place stayed in business as many people were on their third drink by the time the show started. Even then, the lobby didn't fully empty. A few people seemed to be treating The Festival as a movie-themed bar with the ticket price as a cheap cover charge.

At some point, Sam's cola fishbowl took on a hint of lime even though he'd never noticed the volume in the glass change. He squinted at it suspiciously. "Dude, did you…?"

"You're welcome."

He felt like they should try questioning Krissy Anne or Carl again, but as he slurped the last of his daiquiri, he couldn't think of a single coherent question to ask that would be helpful. It was all still too busy to get her attention anyway.

"Let's go back to the hotel," Dean said, patting him on the back.

The stagger back to the hotel was surreal. 

They were still in their stupid ties and dress shirts and Sam was sure they looked like a couple of missionaries who'd slipped away from Bible class for a night on the town. He caught his toe on an uneven break in the sidewalk and stumbled slightly. It wasn't even because he was drunk, but Dean said, "Whoa, careful, sailor," and slipped his arm around Sam to steady him. 

So, Sam might have exaggerated his level of inebriation a tiny bit after that. He didn't try to deny to himself that it was what it was; Sam wanted Dean touching him. He craved it. Their rare and fleeting hugs were never enough. He wanted a hug that didn't require one or both of them to nearly die first.

The night was warm, but not uncomfortably so, and Sam imagined he could smell the salt air on the breeze. He felt a nameless glow deep in his gut. After walking a few blocks arm-and-arm with Dean, Sam realized that it did have a name. Happiness. This was what it was like to be _happy_. Not just entertaining themselves to distract from the pain, no gallows humor to prop up their sanity. Sam was just honestly happy and without one damn reason to feel guilty about it. 

And if a fishbowl full of rum wasn't a good enough excuse to share that fact, there would never be a better time. He leaned down until his lips were right next to Dean's ear. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Princess." Dean was already snickering at his own joke without waiting for a reaction from Sam.

"I love you more, Little Dean."

Dean shoved against his shoulder. His face looked red in the gloom.

“Are you blushing?” Sam asked him.

“No.” 

Sam steered him under the nearest streetlight and spun Dean around to face him. "You _are_. You're _blushing_."

Dean made his dismissive "Ffft" sound and turned away, but, critically, _crucially_ resumed walking with his arm around Sam's midsection. "The lighting out here is weird. You can't see shit. You're imagining anything you think you see."

Sam opted to let it go. The possibility of losing Dean's touch was way more important than any number of imaginary points earned by winning a debate with him.

The hotel was twelve stories high, on top of the parking garage. That was really the only way in which it differed from their typical motel. They hadn't bothered going all the way up to the room when they checked in, so they hit the parking garage first to get their bags from the car. 

Their room was on the eighth floor which involved taking a claustrophobically small elevator. It made worrisome clanging and screeching noises as they rode it up and Sam and Dean exchanged an uncomfortable look. It would be a touch ironic if this was how they died, in a random accident in a poorly-maintained elevator instead of in a Butch and Sundance-esque blaze of glory. 

"I think maybe we should take the stairs next time," Dean announced as they stepped out onto the relative solidity of the musty hallway carpet.

"It'll be good exercise," Sam agreed, establishing that in no way were two grown hunters afraid of an elevator.

It was the first time they'd gone up to their floor so they turned in the wrong direction at first, but on the plus side, they found the ice and the vending machines. Dean declared it a classy hotel as a result and insisted on buying two orange soda pops, because, "You always loved orange soda pop. Nothing but the best for my Sammy."

Sam had no recollection of ever having made a big deal about orange soda pop, but he appreciated the gesture.

As soon as they found the right room, Dean grabbed the ice bucket and tried to go fill it. Sam did not want to be left alone and a ridiculous idea to stop his brother leaving the room popped into his head. The ridiculous idea wasn't unfamiliar to him, but his decision to act on it… he blamed that on all the rum. 

Sam tackle-hugged Dean onto the bed. The orange cans rolled away out of sight.

"We don't need ice," Sam insisted.

"Well, not _now_ ," Dean said. "Those cans'll fizz everywhere if we try to open them now."

Sam couldn't think of a single word that could logically help his case, so he just leaned in and kissed Dean on the lips. It was a quick chaste peck, but still probably technically weird, because lips and brothers weren't supposed to go together. "I love you," he whispered, hoping that maybe this time Dean would hear the sincerity in his voice.

"I love you, too, man." And Dean meant it. He wasn't joking. But Sam still didn't think he got it and didn't really expect that he ever would, because weird. Obviously.

"It's not the same," Sam said, tilting his head to kiss the side of Dean's neck. 

It was still chaste, still weird, but Dean gasped like he finally realized what Sam was trying to say, which of course meant Sam instantly regretted saying it. Before he could backtrack, Dean flipped them over so that he loomed over Sam. In that moment, with Dean leaning over him, staring searchingly into his eyes, Sam could imagine a hundred thousand possibilities and very few of them involved being able to look Mom in the face afterward. Sam swallowed, grasping for the words, but at a total loss for how to explain getting all handsy after just a couple of drinks when his normal reaction to alcohol mainly involved getting a little sleepy.

"You," Dean said, and Sam's already useless brain froze entirely, "are freaking adorable when you're this wasted." And then he kissed Sam on the forehead, grabbed the ice bucket, and walked out of the room.

Sam just lay back and contemplated how badly he'd messed up until enough time had passed that he was starting to worry that Dean wasn't coming back. Dean, however, walked in with a full ice bucket and two new orange cans. He put ice into two of the hotel's small plastic cups, opened a can, and poured it evenly between the two cups.

He handed one to Sam and then fetched the other two cans that had rolled away on the floor. He set them carefully aside so they wouldn't mix them up with the non-explosive can and then sat down on the bed next to Sam.

Sam sheepishly said, "I'm sorry if I…," but Dean went "Ffft" and as much as Sam normally hated when Dean did that—like really, really _hated_ it—now it was the most soothing sound in the world. Dean was going to let this go.

"Tell you what. You wanted to take the day off and I didn't listen and we drove all over, not getting anywhere and then we got stuck listening to Grandpa ramble for hours. And then you were extra nice and watched the movie I wanted to see with me, which, obviously, you now agree is the greatest movie ever."

"Yeah, it was cool," Sam laughed. "I'm a little confused about Etta in the end though. Didn't it kind of seem like she was _both_ of their girlfriend?"

Dean nodded in agreement. "Not sure about the logistics of that. You figure all three of them, like at once?" Their eyes met and Dean coughed and, with no sodium streetlights to blame, he was _totally_ blushing. "So, anyway, the point was, I owe you a day off and we've got plenty of time. So—I mean, we don't even have to do a run up to Tarpon Springs if you don't want to, we can hang out at the beach or do a boat tour or whatever you want."

"If you don't mind driving back down to Saint Petersburg, there is supposed to be a really cool Salvador Dalí museum."

Dean's face froze. "Like an _art_ museum? That's, that's what you want to do on your day off?" Sam frowned, but before he could object, Dean continued, "That's fine. Okay, art, I can be cultured and do art."

Sam relaxed and risked leaning over and bumping Dean's side. "Thanks. And if it's not too much driving in one day, going up to Tarpon Springs for dinner sounds great."

"What the hell does 'too much driving' mean?" Dean asked with mock offense.

"So it's a date then?" Sam asked and at once wished he'd chosen his words more carefully.

Yet Dean only smiled at him fondly and said, "It's a date."

Dean popped the second can and refilled their cups, and they drank in companionable silence, followed by an impromptu belching contest. Sam got up and grabbed his toothbrush and went to scrub the sugar off of his teeth. He realized as he did so that he was again in a state of _almost_ happy, but he decided that he'd sure as hell take it over everything else he'd lived through.

He changed into his baggy sleep shirt and a pair of ultra-thin pajama bottoms, which he only wore in the summer when it was too warm for sweatpants and potentially even too hot to be comfortable with the skin of his bare legs sticking together. When he walked back into the room, Dean was standing at the window. "Check this out," Dean said. "We have a balcony."

Sam approached and looked over his shoulder.

"Not much to see after dark," Dean admitted. "But the clerk said they get amazing sunsets on the west coast of Florida. We'll have to be sure to be back before sundown at least once before we leave town."

"Dean," Sam said. He wasn't quite sure where he was going with this. Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, he couldn't quite believe he had the nerve to say them. "Stay with me tonight."

"I'm not going anywhere."

He could only hope that Dean was as buzzed as he was or there'd be no excusing it in the morning. He tugged Dean over to the bed next to the window and repeated, "Stay with me."

Dean looked at the bed and at Sam, glanced briefly at the other empty bed, and said, "I don't know what's wrong with you tonight, Sam," and before Sam's heart could break, he continued, "but whatever it is, I've got you. It's okay."

"Thanks." Sam climbed into the bed. 

Dean grabbed his stuff and disappeared into the bathroom for an eternity, but when he returned, ready for bed and smelling of toothpaste, he didn't hesitate before crawling into bed with Sam. "Ready for lights out?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Dean stretched to turn out the bedside lamp and rolled back towards Sam. "It's weird not having a mission, isn't it?" Dean asked, just a voice in the darkness while Sam's eyes had yet to adapt. 

"Good weird," Sam said, "but, yeah, weird."

"We still have a purpose though," Dean insisted. "There will always be monsters to fight. People to save."

"Of course."

"But I get how you might feel a little… untethered… without a big driving goal. There's always been something more important that we had to be willing to sacrifice ourselves for and now—with Mom back?—it's like all I can think is, 'Don't die now. We can't any of us die now.'"

"Yeah," Sam breathed shakily. His eyes were adjusting and Dean's face felt like it was materializing out of nothing and his heart ached. "I've been feeling _almost_ happy and I don't know what's still missing." That was a lie. He knew deep down what he wanted. "But I think maybe it's just that I'm scared to be happy."

"Scared of losing it all just when it's finally worth living. I hear you." Dean brushed a lock of hair out of Sam's eyes and then said, "Turn around."

His voice caught in his throat when he asked, "Why?" 

"Little brother. Little spoon. Turn around."

So Sam rolled over and Dean reached an arm around him and Sam melted into the touch. 

"Right now," Sam whispered, as quietly as he could, afraid of breaking whatever magical spell had made this moment possible—all hail the God of Rum—"there's no 'almost' about it."

"Shhhh. Go to sleep."  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	4. Going Full Tourist

_"Shhhh. Go to sleep."_

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

The worst part was that Sam actually did. Thursday morning came in the blink of an eye and, though he awoke feeling more rested than he ever had in his life, he deeply regretted that he hadn't stayed awake longer. He felt cheated out of a night in Dean's arms.

Dean was gone who-knew-where and Sam wasn't yet ready to deal with the day, so he rolled onto Dean's pillow hoping to inhale his brother's scent. But it mostly smelled like whatever the hotel washed the sheets with. He rolled onto his back again, disappointed. Glancing around the room, he noticed that Dean's computer was missing. He imagined that Dean was probably at a coffee shop or diner, getting a little research in with breakfast. Despite mocking research as boring, Dean had gotten quite good at it over the years.

Dean was good at most things really. Fighting monsters, driving for hours on end without complaint, taking care of Sam no matter what, looking as gorgeous as a movie star without even trying…

 _Damn it, I'm in love._ It was annoying. It wasn't even the incestuous pining that bothered him so much. It wasn't like Dean would ever let that get anywhere. The annoying part was that somehow, without even noticing when it had happened, he had fallen in love with a lying asshole who dismissed his opinion and ordered him around as if a four-year age difference made him king.

Sam ran his hand down to his dick. Dean had occasionally featured in his jerk-off fantasies over the years. He had always, as much as he could control his imagination, pictured a woman in those fantasies. Sometimes he imagined Dean starring in one of his favorite pornos and he always told himself that it was Dean who popped into his mind because, really, who else would end up in those situations? Once or twice, he thought about Dean when he was a demon. Not as he'd really been, but a slightly kinder, gentler Demon Dean who did not try to kill him, but maybe didn't have any qualms about incest. Demon Dean had been kind of hot, honestly. Maybe that was when he first started thinking impure thoughts about his brother. 

No, that wasn't true. They had always been codependent and dysfunctional. People had mistaken them for a couple for Sam's entire adult life and it had always thrown him off kilter when Dean sometimes played along. Lucifer—or the persistent hallucination that looked like Lucifer, so it really counted as Sam's own subconscious—had pointed out repeatedly and in vulgar detail what Sam _really_ wanted from Dean. The flashes of memory as he recalled his soulless days egged Hallucifer on, because, absolutely, soulless Sam had thought about it, hadn't even understood why it was wrong, registering the taboo only abstractly as something that would upset Dean if he acted on it.

No, Demon Dean wasn't when it started. That was just when he'd admitted to himself that it was true. Demon Dean was _not_ his brother and whatever part of Sam's psyche protected him from the awareness that his brother was sex on legs, inexplicably hot bowlegs, yeah, that part of his brain stopped working then and getting his brother back hadn't managed to reset it. Dean was still the hottest thing that ever lived and, well, no one else needed to _ever_ know that, but it was what it was and Sam was very overdue getting off.

It would be better with lotion or lube, but he hadn't packed any of that for a hunt. So he just kept his grip a little loose and teased himself on. He'd survived puberty without even knowing that lube had anything to do with it. (Dean had left him with the impression that lube was something you needed to prevent getting stuck inside a girl. For someone as experienced as Dean, he gave _terrible_ explanations that mostly consisted of gestures, misleading metaphors, and "you know". As a result, Sam had been very confused about the birds and the bees even well _after_ he lost his virginity.)

He was just getting revved up, the telltale feel of moisture beading at the head of his shaft, and he let out a little moan, a habit he'd learned actually helped him build momentum.

"You finally up?" Dean called out from four feet away.

Sam narrowly avoided screaming in shock. "Dean?!" _Shit! The balcony!_ He'd completely forgotten the balcony. He clutched his dick in both hands, as if that hid anything, and looked toward the _screen_ door that was all that separated them. Dean was, thankfully, just out of sight.

"I have bagels _and_ danishes," Dean announced, so close Sam could hear his chair legs scrape on the balcony as he moved. "I drank all the coffee though. So now that you've finally finished getting your beauty sleep, you'll have to go down to the lobby for more."

"I, uh, I think I'm going to take a shower first." Sam nearly ran into the bathroom. How stupid had that been? Even if Dean _had_ left the room like he'd thought, there was no reason he couldn't walk back in at any time. Where the hell were Sam's brain cells? Sam's hand immediately went back to his dick, effectively answering his own question.

He stripped off and jumped in the shower. He'd just got his rhythm back when Dean knocked on the door. "Hey, Sam, do you love me?"

 _What the hell?_ Straining to keep the full truth out of his voice, Sam answered, mid-stroke, "I love you, Dean."

"How much do you love me?" Dean asked.

"Oh, my God. I love you more than anything else in the world!" Sam said, thinking that while that was true, he also kind of hated him more than anything else in this world, and also, holy shit, he was going to come.

"Because you love me and because I am _the_ best brother in the world, I'm going to go downstairs and get more coffee."

"I love you, Dean!" Sam gasped.

"You're welcome, Princess," Dean said, innocently oblivious as _Princess_ spurted onto the shower wall.

Sam was never going to forgive Dean for that. Ever.   
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

He decided that the priority was to get cleaned up and dressed as quickly as possible, so he was still a little bit damp and his hair was dripping as he pulled on his clothing. He was standing directly in front of the AC unit trying to undo that damage when Dean returned with the coffee, looking just sweaty enough that Sam figured he must have followed through on his vow to take the stairs.

"Here," Dean said. "Come check out the view."

There were two cheap plastic chairs and a tiny table on the balcony. The table was only large enough for Dean's laptop, so the plate of baked goods was on the second chair.

The view, as promised, overlooked the beach. "Wow, this is actually nice."

Sam carefully picked up the food so he could sit down.

Dean snagged one of the bagels, pointed at the laptop, and made a series of nauseating sounds that even Sam couldn't comprehend.

"Dean, I love you with all of my heart, but you are gross and disgusting."

Dean chewed for a bit longer, took a swig of coffee, and then said, "Half an hour drive from the art museum: Alligator Adventure. We are totally going. Don't make that face. I'm doing art. You can do the alligator farm. We'll make it a full day of culture."

"Culture?"

" _And_ , our day off comes completely guilt free. I got ahold of Sophie's roommate. She's out of town for a family wedding and won't be back until Saturday morning. We are officially out of witnesses to interview. And I've come up with zero history even hinting at the place being haunted."

Sam shouldn't have been glad they hit a dead end on the case, but he did feel a bit relaxed knowing they'd done all they could. Keeping busy would make waiting for a break easier.

"Okay, so, uh, let me finish my bagel and we can head to the museum."

"You back to normal this morning?" Dean asked, giving Sam a concerned look.

"Normal?"

"Last night, you were a little, how shall we say…?"

_Handsy? Kissy? Incesty?_

Dean didn't fill in the blank, but continued, "I was kinda worried you'd be hungover this morning."

"I'm fine. Now. With the coffee. Thank you for the coffee. I'm good. Normal. Good." _As normal as I get._

"Alrighty. Art and alligators. Here we come."  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Dean obviously enjoyed the gator exhibit the most, but he also seemed to have fun at the museum. Sam was a little surprised and a lot glad. No whining, no teasing—or at least no more teasing than usual—and Sam had to admit that the gators were kind of cool, too.

It was just a beautiful day all around and, at the end of it, Sam plunked down too much money at the gift shop. Dean joked about buying Castiel a  _Florida Snowman_ which was a snowless snow globe filled with water and a little floating top hat and carrot. Imagining the expression on Castiel's face was almost worth it, but the Winchesters had never been much for collecting tchotchkes, so as soon as Dean had elicited a laugh from Sam, he put it back on the shelf and moved on to fiddling with something else.

Sam bought a postcard with an alligator on it, a bottle of orange blossom perfume for Mom, and, when he was sure Dean wasn't looking, he grabbed a bottle of orange blossom scented lotion for himself. It was a practical item that he would use, he rationalized, and if it reminded him of a happy day in Florida when he did, then bonus. 

Most of the T-shirts had cheap vinyl transfers on them. Sam had always hated the rubbery feel and the way the designs peeled off over time, so he nearly dismissed the shirts entirely, but then he spotted a rack with vintage-style ink-printed ones. They were still tacky—Florida was spelled with a giant orange for the letter O on one design, an alligator wore sunglasses on another—but they were quality shirts and back north they'd probably wear them under flannel and the design wouldn't matter anyway. He bought one for each of them. 

He'd kind of meant to just keep the postcard for himself. Something to tuck away in his box of memories. But when Dean asked, "Who's the postcard for?" it seemed like a silly thought.

"Jody and the girls? Or maybe Jesse and Caesar? I probably should have bought two. I wasn't thinking."

"I'm sure we'll run across more gift shops before we leave Florida. And we should get a couple for Mom and Castiel too. I was thinking after we're all done here, we'll be driving right by Weeki Wachee on the way north anyway, we should stop there. Catch a mermaid show. We can pick up more postcards then."

Sam paused as they reached the Impala. "Dean, I don't think _any_ of the people you just mentioned would appreciate a postcard of a 'mermaid' in a bikini top."

"Hey, those girls are good swimmers. That's not a peep show. That's athleticism. But, okay, point about the postcards."

"Here, I got you a present." Sam pulled one of the T-shirts out of his bag of purchases and tossed it over the car to Dean.

"Damn, we're going full tourist, aren't we?" 

Dean then surprised him by pulling off his shirt and changing right there in the parking lot. It was the Florida-spelled-with-an-orange shirt and Sam wondered if she should have offered him the alligator shirt instead as it struck him as more _Dean_ , but he still looked good. The white fabric clung a bit tighter than the shirt Dean had just removed, but it would probably stretch out with wear and still be okay.

"Didn't you get one for yourself?" Dean asked.

Sam pulled the other shirt out of the bag and then hesitated. Modesty in the summer heat wasn't really a thing. They'd run across tons of people in various stages of undress, women in see-through beach cover-ups over swimsuits and plenty of shirtless men. It was really only _Dean_ that Sam was feeling weird about removing his shirt in front of, but going somewhere private to change would only make it weirder. He tossed the bag with his remaining souvenirs in the backseat and then quickly changed, strategically throwing his old shirt on top of the bag because he knew with absolute certainty that Dean would tease him about the perfumed lotion if he saw it.

Dean looked him over and said, "Nice," and for a fraction of a second Sam thought he meant… but, obviously, he was just talking about the alligator shirt.

They both climbed into the car and headed north. Sam's stomach grumbled and Dean reminded him they had a roughly hour-and-a-half drive ahead of them for dinner. "Good," Sam said, trying not to regret that he'd skipped lunch during their sightseeing day. "The hungrier I am when we get there, the better it will taste." 

Dean cranked his music up and they drove without talking for about half the way, before Sam asked, "Is it okay if I call Mom?"

"You need my permission?" Dean scoffed, but he reached over and turned off the music. 

Sam set it to speakerphone and dialed. It rang several times and Sam was starting to fear the call would go to voicemail when it finally connected and a female voice answered, "Hello? Oh! No! Crap!" followed by a loud clattering noise and finally, " _Balls!_ "

"Mom?! Are you okay?"

"Oh, hi, sweetie. I'm fine. I just… I do _not_ like these rectangles. Mobile technology is amazing, don't get me wrong, and being able to _phone_ pictures to people, that's awesome, but the phones I grew up with had handsets. You could hold onto them without dropping them and even if you did drop them, they didn't shatter."

Dean spared a glance away from the road and silently mouthed _six days_ and Sam could barely contain his laughter. "It's okay, Mom, we'll get you a new phone and I'll take you shopping for a case for it."

"A case? To store it in?"

"No, Mom, a phone case is like a casing that goes around the phone. They make the phone a little bigger and easier to grip and they protect it if you do drop it. We should have thought about that before."

"Don't tell Dean I broke the second phone he gave me in a week, okay?" Mary pleaded.

"Hi, Mom," Dean said. "You're on speakerphone."

"The evil rectangles of the future have a speakerphone option. Of course they do."

To Sam, Dean quipped, "And already with the secrets. She's a real Winchester all right."

"I'm sorry I broke your phone," Mary said.

"It's okay, Mom. And Sam's right. We should have gotten you a protective case for it."

"So how's the hunt going?" Mary asked.

"Lots of dead ends so far," Dean said, "but we convinced the theater owner not to show any more murder matinees, so everybody should be fine until we figure out the cause."

Sam chimed in, "So far we have no hex bags, a lot of EMF where the deaths occurred yet no spectral suspects that predate the current victims, and everything in the theater is pretty well nailed down, so cursed object doesn't seem likely." 

"What about the film itself?" Mary suggested. "There's lore dating back to pretty much the invention of the camera involving spirits able to escape from photographs. And legends of cameras stealing your soul may be based on actual cursed cameras. Were the victims all watching the same film?"

"Different movie every time," Dean said.

"Could the movies all have been filmed on the same camera?"

"Not possible," Sam said. "We've got about a five-year spread on filming dates and completely different filming locations and studios. I compared the films on IMDb and I can't find a single thing that connects all four. Different actors, different directors, different crew."

"Iyemdeebee?"

"It stands for Internet Movie Database," Sam said.

"You know what, Mom," Dean added. "Castiel is very proud of his mastery of pop culture. You guys should talk current events."

"Yeah, about Castiel… Dean, honey, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Shoot."

"Maybe this isn't a conversation for speakerphone."

"Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of Sam. It's okay."

"Are you and Castiel…?"

Sam started laughing while Dean sputtered, "Why does everyone think—oh, my God. We're _friends_ , Mom. Good _friends_."

"It's just that I'm not entirely sure what he meant by 'profound' and…"

"I've asked Dean about this before and he swears they aren't screwing," Sam added helpfully.

Dean huffed and continued staring at the highway. 

"So, just to be clear," Mary said, "Castiel's available?"

Sam dropped the phone.

While Sam was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe, Dean slowly and calmly picked up the phone and in a carefully modulated tone said, "Mom, you understand that Castiel isn't actually _human_ , right? Inside the gooey human shell, he's…"

"A multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent the size of the Chrysler Building and somehow shadow wings are involved," Mary said. "Yes, I know. Castiel says that inside our gooey shells, humans are… How did he put it? 'The glowing immortal essence of audacity and unwarranted optimism.' So, basically weird all around if you think of it that way. A meat suit is still a meat suit even if it's the one you were born in."

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, my God," Sam gasped, "I think she's serious."

"Mom, Sam and I are going to go have dinner and _not_ think about you and Castiel doing _anything_ with your meat suits. Love you. Bye."

It took several more ragged breaths before Sam could stop laughing. "You actually hung up on Mom?"

"I said, 'Love you. Bye.' That's not hanging up."

They drove in near silence with only the hum of the road in the background. Dean didn't even turn the music back on. At least twenty minutes went by before Sam said, "Well, she has a type."

"Shut up! Castiel and Dad are nothing alike."

"Dark hair, rugged good looks…"

"One more word and I'm not buying you dinner." 

Sam turned the music back on.  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

The Greek food had been a wonderful idea. Ouzo, on the other hand, was the most disgusting thing Sam had ever tasted. He shuddered and slid his glass of liquor toward Dean.

"Trade you for the car keys," Sam said. "You can have both drinks and I'll drive us back to the hotel."

"Wimp."

"I'm not a wimp. That's vile." Sam took a giant swig of water, but it wasn't enough to wash the taste out of his mouth and he shuddered again. 

"More for me," Dean said, followed by, "Hey!" when Sam stole the last dolma off his plate.

"I need something to kill the nasty licorice flavor," Sam said. He flagged down the waiter and ordered coffee. 

The waiter was young and fit, dark haired and attractive. Dean effortlessly shifted into flirt-mode while the waiter suggested additional appetizers to go with the ouzo. Because, yeah, Mom wasn't the only one with a type. The waiter left to get Sam's coffee and Dean's head swiveled around to follow his retreating backside.

"So are we still pretending you're straight?" Sam asked.

The first clue of how his brother was going to respond to something—whether Dean planned to laugh it off, ignore it, or get angry about it—was reaction time. The jokes were immediate. Denial and a change of subject generally followed a brief blink or cough or stutter as Dean shifted gears as quickly as possible. On the other hand, if Dean was going to get angry about something…

Dean turned slowly, _very slowly_ back around and Sam knew he'd hit a nerve before Dean even said, "Excuse me?" in a deep, measured voice.

Sam didn't feel like backing down. "You are a connoisseur of butts and you have never been particularly concerned with the gender of the person said butt is attached to. I'm just wondering if maybe we've finally matured past the point where we have to pretend you only check out lady butts."

The waiter returned with Sam's coffee and Dean blushed so dramatically that even the waiter noticed. Mistaking it for an alcohol flush, he again pushed the appetizers insisting that ouzo was traditionally paired with food to mitigate the effects. He suggested the octopus. Dean looked like he was going to have a stroke, what with having his sexual preferences and his alcohol tolerance questioned within moments of each other. Sam didn't want to witness his reaction to having a dish of tentacles set in front of him. He quickly steered the waiter away from the seafood options and asked for another order of dolmades and an olive and cheese plate with bread.

Dean quietly stewed and sipped his ouzo. If Sam Winchester were the sort of person who made wise life choices, he would have let it go at that point, but when Dean seemed to have cooled off enough, he tried again.

"The thing is," Sam said carefully, "it's a little insulting the way you get offended when someone suggests you aren't heterosexual. It would almost be worth the effort of a seance, just so Charlie can explain how dickish that is."

"I'm not offended," Dean said, still slowly, but he'd at least dropped the deep rumble of exaggerated testosterone. "It's just factually incorrect."

"Is it?"

"I like chicks, Sam. I always have. You think I've been lying about that my entire adult life? Seriously?"

"I never said you didn't like women. Some people like both. There's nothing wrong with liking both. And maybe even, all things being equal, you prefer women for the most part. I'm just saying that when faced with a particularly attractive man, you… think about it."

"I don't…"

"You totally do and let's stop even debating that part because it's true. The question is, have you ever done more than think about it?"

"No, I don't… I've never…" The waiter returned with their food and, even in the context of their current conversation, Dean flicked a quick glance over his annoyingly perfect young body. When the young man left, Dean sagged almost imperceptibly and admitted, "Not while alive, human, or sober. So it doesn't count."

Demon Dean became ten times hotter for a beat before Sam realized who Dean's most likely dance partner would have been. Before he could even ask about Crowley, Dean seemed to read his mind and interrupted.

"We do _not_ talk about that. I don't ask what you did without a soul. You don't ask what I did while I was a demon. The cage, hell, Vegas— _all_ off limits."

"That's fair," Sam agreed. 

Dean changed the subject and they talked about the current hunt without coming up with any new ideas. Dean ordered a third ouzo and made Sam pinky-swear that they would absolutely stop in Weeki Wachee for the mermaid show before they left Florida. They talked about how weird it was that Mom was back and how neither of them could work up the nerve to shatter her illusions about Dad. They talked for _hours_ about important things and trivial things. 

They ordered more food than they could possibly eat, wanting to sample everything even knowing most of it would end up as leftovers. Sam was grateful for Dean's insight in booking a room with a kitchenette.

He found himself fixated on Dean's hands. They were right there, right within reach. Sometimes they waved wildly as Dean talked about something that amused or annoyed him. Sometimes his hands rested on the table. It would have been so easy for Sam to reach out and hold Dean's hand and, after enough booze, Dean might even have let him, but he couldn't bring himself to risk it.  
   
Over the baklava, Dean abruptly said, "What the hell. If Castiel can make her happy, who am I to discourage them?"

"Seriously?"

"Everybody should have somebody," Dean said, before adding sternly, "but I am _not_ calling him 'Dad'."

Sam laughed, but he was just going through the motions. His mind was stuck on _Everybody should have somebody_. 

Somewhere between the dessert and the check, Dean stopped pretending he wasn't flirting with the cute waiter. His name was Christos and Sam joked that at least Dean would never have to worry about a demon possessing his boyfriend without Dean realizing it the first time anyone said his name. Dean actually laughed. "Ah, man, those were simpler times. Remember when demons were so rare we were shocked whenever we ran across one?"

"Yeah, opening that hell gate was not our finest hour."

"Ffft. How many times have we saved the world? We're even. Besides, now that we've actually met enough of them? We know demons are just thugs. No big deal."

"So what is a big deal? What scares you? Worst monster ever?"

Christos returned Dean's credit card and gave them directions to a liquor store walking distance down the street where Dean could buy a bottle of the vile liquid he'd been sipping all evening. Sam politely waited until Christos was out of earshot before he made disparaging comments about his national drink.

They were walking back to the car from the liquor store and Sam had nearly forgotten the question when Dean suddenly answered. "The worst is either witches because they're just humans who should know better or angels because they're supposed to be the good guys."

Dean walked up to the driver's side of the Impala out of habit. Sam took his hand and led him around to the passenger side. "Nuh-uh, Mr. Ouzo, you ride and I drive." 

Dean lifted their joined hands and gave Sam a quizzical look, but didn't let go. "I'm not actually drunk you know. Ouzo isn't any stronger than Jack Daniels and we've been eating and talking for hours."

"Unless you have a breathalyzer on you to test that, you _ride_."

"You are just using this as an excuse to drive my car," Dean said. He tugged Sam close. Dean smelled like licorice and sunscreen, neither of which should have been a turn-on, but Sam was hyper-aware of their proximity and rare lack of layers. Just two thin T-shirts separated them and Dean looked damned good in his. "You," Dean continued, "are trying to take advantage of my pleasant mood." Dean swayed forward slightly and actually bumped into him, still smiling smugly about some joke that Sam had missed out on.

Sam tried to calculate the alcohol content of three ouzos versus the fishbowl concoction from The Festival. He was sure they had both been much drunker the night before when Sam had actually tried to make out with his brother. The fact that he was sober now would make it worse though—he would literally be taking advantage of Dean if he acted on any of the impulses pinging around his brain at that moment.

"Have you ever considered taking a break from alcohol for awhile?" Sam asked, aware that it was probably a weird time to ask, what with Dean holding Sam's hand in a gentle sway while clutching a bottle of ouzo in his other hand.

"You think I can't handle my alcohol?"

"You handle alcohol better than anyone I've ever seen. Your liver is a pro. I'm just saying that we don't _need_ to have professional livers. We're resorting to all the same old coping mechanisms out of habit when there's really not even that much to cope with right now."

"You're talking like we're retired. We're not retired. We still deal with crap. That _Jaws_ lady? That's literally the stuff of nightmares. And it's not like it's just these one-off hunts. Lucifer is still out there and I still need to turn him _inside out through his intestines_ for what he did to you. And… and there's just _so much_ we should have done differently, bad choices we can never undo and…"

"Yeah, yeah, get in the car," Sam said, opening the passenger door and gently pushing Dean in. "We can argue about it on the drive back to the hotel."

Sam walked back around to the driver's side and got in. It was so rare that he got to drive the Impala that it felt strange to sit behind the wheel with Dean in the car. It made him a touch nervous. It's not like the car hadn't been nearly destroyed multiple times, but if she got so much as a scratch on her while _Sam_ was driving, he'd never hear the end of it. He fully expected Dean to backseat drive, but Dean was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride back. Maybe he'd talked himself out at dinner. Maybe he was just sleepy after a big meal and a few drinks. Or maybe Sam had really screwed up the end of an otherwise perfect day.

Dean didn't speak again until Sam pulled into the hotel parking garage. "How long are we talking about exactly?"

"Huh?" Sam turned off the ignition and tried to get back in sync with a conversation they had left off an hour before.

Dean waved the bottle of ouzo. "This not-drinking-alcohol thing. How long do I have to go without booze to prove that you don't have anything to worry about?"

 _The fact that you phrase the question like that only worries me more_ , Sam thought. Aloud he said, "How about until we leave Florida? We finish this hunt sober and then when we get back to Kansas you can share the ouzo with Castiel and Mom as a souvenir of the trip while you tell them all about how much you hate the Sunshine State."

"The gators were cool though," Dean admitted.

"Yeah, the gators were cool."

Dean popped the door open, but hesitated before getting out of the car. "If I'm not drinking, you're not drinking. We need to be clear on that rule."

"Absolutely," Sam agreed. "I need to lay off the hard stuff as much as you do, if not more."

Dean laughed. "Man, you really were something else last night. For a second there, I thought you were actually going to—" Dean cleared his throat and got out of the car without finishing the sentence. He opened the trunk and put the bottle of ouzo inside a coil of rope where it wouldn't roll around too much. He patted it and announced, "To share with Mom back in Kansas. I'm not sharing with Castiel though. That dude can chug absinthe. It's disturbing. He can go get his own bottle if he wants any."

Dean closed the trunk and then surprised Sam by slipping an arm around him as they walked away from the car. Sam took it as permission to reciprocate even though Dean didn't seem to need his support. His brother metabolized alcohol almost as efficiently as Castiel. His only deference to a slight impairment (aside from not putting up a fight about Sam driving) was when they reached the stairs.

"Could we… not? I already did this twice getting breakfast and coffee this morning."

"Because you love me," Sam said, trying not to giggle as his dick twitched in his pants. It had been a surreal morning.

"Because I love you," Dean agreed, "and that means I have had my exercise for the day."

"I think we'll be okay taking the elevator this once," Sam agreed. He changed his mind exactly twenty-seven seconds later. "Seriously, it's not just me is it? It can't possibly be supposed to make that sound? What would you even call that sound?"

"I'd call that a _twang_ ," Dean said. At that exact moment, there was a grinding vibration through the whole elevator car as it slowed. It then lurched back to full speed with another clang. Or twang. Whatever you called that sound, it sounded scary.

The next floor was theirs, but Sam was pretty sure they'd have gotten out on that floor even if it hadn't been. Dean called the front desk to complain while Sam brushed his teeth. By the time that Sam was crawling into his bed, Dean had escalated the call to the corporate office and his story had changed from, "I'd like to talk to you about your death trap" to "You're ruining my honeymoon."

Sam reflected that it was almost unreasonable to ask Dean to be honest with him. Honesty was just not one of Dean's stronger skills. They'd spent so much of their lives making up fake histories on the fly that it now just came as second nature. The only way to prevent Dean from keeping secrets and telling lies to him would be to keep him in sight 24/7. It was a tempting strategy.

"Room 812. Er… Sam and Dean Allman, yes. And my husband is very stressed out right now." Dean talked with his hands and, if it weren't bad enough that he was lying to some hotel worker in the corporate office for no discernible reason, he was also waving at Sam every time he mentioned his fictional husband. Sam glowered at him, but that only egged him on. "I mean, I don't even know if my sweetie will be able to perform tonight after a scare like that. He's very sensitive."

Sam threw a pillow at him, which Dean easily dodged and continued the saga of his tragic honeymoon. 

"Uh-huh, I'm listening. Does that still face the ocean? And you promise the elevator will be fixed tomorrow? You're not trying to sneak an up-charge onto our bill, are you? Now that's more like it. Thank you very much. And you'll send the desk clerk up with the key? I'm not going back down to the front desk again tonight. Thank you."

Dean hung up the phone and beamed in victory. 

"What the hell was that all about?" Sam asked.

"Get out of bed and pack your stuff," Dean said.

"What?" 

"They're sending someone up with a key to our new room."

"Why are we changing rooms?" Sam would be perfectly amenable to moving to a lower floor tomorrow, but he didn't see why they had to switch rooms tonight. They were already up here.

"They're giving us a free upgrade to the executive suite on the twelfth floor."

"The _twelfth_ floor?! That's the exact opposite of being an improvement, Dean!"

"The _executive_ suite," Dean repeated. "It's larger _and_ has a hot tub. Also, they swear they'll have the elevator fixed tomorrow so four extra flights won't make a difference."

"Huh, okay."

Sam got out of bed and gathered his things back up out of the bathroom, but refused to change out of his sleepwear. Dean was starting to get impatient and cranky by the time the desk clerk arrived with the key, but the poor guy was flushed and sweaty and they took pity on him and tipped him well for his trouble. The elevator already had an _Out of Order_ sign on it when they walked past to the stairs. Four more flights up and they were at their new digs. 

Despite Sam's skepticism, it was totally worth the effort. The top floor was configured in a completely different floor plan and they had been assigned a corner suite. Instead of a tiny balcony sticking out of the side of the building, they had a roof deck with a large hot tub. The whole place was larger and when Sam went to put their leftovers in the fridge, he realized they had a full kitchen, not just a kitchenette like the previous room. There was a lime-green sofa situated in front of a big-screen TV. The room was almost perfect. Almost.

"Oh, my God, I hope we never solve this case," Dean announced. 

Dean had apparently not noticed the bed. Sam decided that meant he had dibs. Dean could sleep on the sofa. Sam dumped his things on the floor and slipped into bed before his brother could protest.

"Awesome room, Dean," he said. 

Dean finally did a double-take at the bed, but was otherwise unfazed. "Whatever. The key point here is hot tub."

"Goodnight, Dean. Be sure to turn the lights out after you brush your teeth."

Sam rolled over and luxuriated in the new bed. It was at least a California king. He'd slept in too many motel beds that maxed out at a double. It was nice to sleep in something he didn't feel in danger of tipping out of, and a rare luxury to be able to stretch his legs out without his feet hanging over the end of the bed. He was dimly aware of the sound of the bathroom door and then the lights clicked out.

And then Dean shoved him and said, "Stick to your own side, Stretch," as he climbed into bed with him.

Startled, Sam readjusted his position. He didn't _object_. The bed really was big enough for both of them. He just hadn't expected Dean to want to share a bed for the second night in a row.

"Goodnight, Dean," he repeated.

"Goodnight, Princess."

Sam's dick thrummed to life. This, Sam reflected, was going to get old really fast.   
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	5. With Your Big Sasquatch Hands

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

He awoke in the morning, clutching Dean like a drowning man with a life preserver. Dean was already twisting out of little-spoon position and Sam realized that it was his brother's wriggling that had awoken him. Sam had one leg completely over Dean in addition to having his arm all the way around Dean's midsection. Sam tried to readjust and his foot slipped off the edge of the bed. He had Dean trapped on the very edge.

"Seriously, dude?" Dean asked. "You have like an acre over on your side."

Sam looked over his shoulder and he had to agree that the other side of the bed looked massive and also very empty. 

"I'm cold," Sam said, relaxing his grip but not fully letting go of Dean's warm body.

"So turn the AC off. We're in freaking _Florida_. We do _not_ need to huddle together for warmth." He made shooing motions and Sam reluctantly stretched and rolled away. Dean stomped off to the bathroom muttering, "Freaking octopus," under his breath.

Sam got up and got dressed. He fiddled with the settings on the air conditioner, but didn't switch it off entirely because once he was up and moving it wasn't cold. There was a coffee pot in the kitchen so he started a pot, relieved that they didn't have to go down to the lobby for caffeine. A peek out into the hallway confirmed the _Out of Order_ sign was still on the elevator.

In full daylight, the hotel room was a little more run-down than it had first appeared, but, in a weird way, the chipped countertop and the stained carpeting just made Sam feel more at home. He was just putting the leftovers into the microwave when Dean joined him. 

"Elevator's still out of commission," Sam said. "Should we save some of the leftovers for lunch?"

Before it had seemed like an enormous amount of food. Stretching it to a third meal though would make for very small portions and Sam's stomach growled even as he suggested it.

Dean laughed and patted Sam's tummy. "Sounds like the beast needs fed. The elevator should be fixed later today. Let's just kill it off."

Sam wasn't as optimistic about the elevator, but agreed that rationing the food was unnecessary. "So… research day? We stay in and see if we can find anything else online?"

"You can research if you want to, it's hot tub day for me," Dean said, pulling a couple of mugs out of the cupboard. They both had the name of the hotel printed on them, yet didn't quite match. Dean seemed to be trying to decide if the taller, skinnier one or the short, wider one was larger overall. Sam almost made a length-versus-girth joke, but held his tongue.  
   
Dean picked a mug and poured his coffee while Sam got out mismatched plates. A typed sign was taped to the cupboard door warning of clean-up fees if they left dirty dishes behind. The executive suite was looking less executive with each passing moment. Sam glanced at the microwave and put the plates back in the cupboard. The Winchesters weren't too good to eat directly from take-out containers. 

Dean was as good as his word and as soon as he polished off his share of the leftovers, he stripped naked and then started rummaging through his bag.

"Uh…" Sam didn't mean to stare, but Dean was _right there_ and _bare-ass naked_.

"What?" Dean straightened up, a bottle of suntan lotion in his hand.

Bare-ass naked and apparently about to get all slick and lotiony.   
   
Sam had developed a slightly unhealthy fixation with Dean's body since his resurrection. Castiel had rebuilt Dean molecule by molecule. Sam's own return from the cage was a mere patch job in comparison. It was a thorough healing to be sure (minus one soul the first time around), but, every time the angel had healed Sam, he had been focused on a specific injury. Dean had been _dead_ , decayed, gone. Castiel _remade_ him. Every single scar Dean had ever had before his death was gone and Castiel had perhaps not considered that _not all scars were the same_.   
   
It hadn't occurred to Sam at the time, despite Dean's repeated hints about being completely restored, and quite a bit of time passed before Sam first caught an unexpected glimpse as Dean was stepping out of the shower. When Sam sputtered out _What the hell?_ , Dean had only smirked and said _Yup, Little Dean has a hoodie now. Remember what I said about Castiel healing all of my scars?_  
   
They never talked about it. Sam had so many questions that he'd never worked up the nerve to ask. _What does it feel like? Is it strange? Does foreskin get in the way? Do chicks think it's weird?_ Embarrassment wasn't enough of a reason to stay his tongue all these years, so maybe he was just afraid that Dean would tell him it was awesome, leaving Sam to regret his own circumcised status.  
   
He didn't quite understand the tradition, let alone the prevalence of circumcision in modern whitebread America, but it was something he just took for granted. As a kid, he had believed that that's just what penises looked like. The first time someone explained circumcision and foreskin to him, he'd had this very comical mental image of a little flap that must go over the tip. The first time that he'd seen a foreign porno had been startling and Dean's terrible explanation— _He's French; they're just like that_ —left him very confused about French anatomy for a few weeks before he found his answers in the library.   
   
He had a powerful urge to touch it, to examine it, find out what it would feel like between his fingers and—if he was honest with himself—under his tongue.  
   
Sam took a sip of coffee while he tried to sort his thoughts into coherent words. The best he could come up with was, "Is that sunscreen water resistant?"

"Yep."

"Good."

"You in?"

"I… uh… um… I was thinking of going for a run first."

Dean stopped lotioning and looked at Sam like he'd grown a third arm. "A run?"

"Yeah."

"You're going to go down all of those stairs, go for a _run_ , and then come back _up_ all of those stairs?"

Sam walked into the kitchen and washed his mug very, very thoroughly. "Maybe. I'll see how I feel when I get down there. Maybe I'll just do the stairs. Exercise is supposed to be good for abstract thinking skills. Maybe something will click."

"Whatever. Grab some snacks while you're out. Pizza. Beer. Something."

"We agreed on no alcohol, remember?" Sam said, turning around and… Damn it, Dean was beautiful. Sam leaned against the counter and tried to will away his arousal. _Gunshots and sharks and spontaneous leukemia. Think about the case. Supposed to be working._

"Does beer really count? Okay, fine. Whatever. Can you give me a hand here?" Dean held out the sunscreen.

"A hand?" Sam breathed.

"I have very delicate skin and if I get a sunburn you will be the one I’ll bitch at."

"I don't control the sun, Dean."

"No, but you can help me reach everywhere with your big Sasquatch hands."

Sam bit his lip and leaned on the counter. He might actually have visible pre-ejaculate leaking into his pajama pants. He could feel the fabric taut against his dick and feared he'd pitched an incredibly obvious tent, but he couldn't risk a look down to see if it really showed without drawing Dean's attention to the problem. 

"Dude, hot tub is waiting. Come on."

Sam nodded and motioned for Dean to turn around, which he thankfully did without an argument. Sam slipped out from behind the counter and grabbed the sunscreen. Dean started to turn, but Sam sidestepped and stayed behind him.

"Hold still," Sam insisted. "If you squirm around and I miss spots, it'll be your fault."

He started on the back of his neck, careful to nudge Dean's head forward whenever he felt his neck muscles signaling that he was about to turn. When he was confident that Dean wouldn't see, he finally snuck a look down. _Shit_. It was just the tiniest spot where the fabric had darkened with moisture. Anywhere else and he could pass it off as a drip of coffee, but it was right at the peak of a tent that was even more comically obvious than he'd feared. If he'd just worn underwear to bed, it ought to have contained the bulge, but, as it was, his dick was pretty much just waving around out there begging to be noticed.

His only chance now was misdirection. As he smoothed lotion over Dean's back, he said, "Sure you don't want to do the beach instead of the hot tub? Think of all the hot chicks in bikinis. And, y'know, hot dudes too." He could feel Dean tensing under his hands so he bit off the impulse to tease.

"I didn't pack swim trunks," Dean said, tersely. "I think I'd get arrested for that on a public beach."

"Are you sure no one can see you in the hot tub?"

"Someone would have to be perving on me with binoculars, in which case I wouldn't be the one getting arrested."

 _Someone's kind of perving on you right now_ , Sam thought with a twinge of guilt. He squeezed out a little more lotion and tried to complete his task without letting his mind wander. Dean's freckled skin really did need the protection. This was _not_ supposed to be about feeling his brother up. Even so, his hands apparently strayed to a ticklish spot on Dean's flank.

Dean flinched. "Okay. So thanks. Have a good run. See you later." Dean walked out onto the deck without a backward glance.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam regretted the stairs before he'd even made it all the way down to the ground floor. The stairwell wasn't air conditioned or even well-ventilated. He counted three cockroaches—two dead and one live—on the way to the lobby. He already felt overheated just going down the stairs. He knew he'd be a sweaty mess on the way back up. It pretty much guaranteed that he'd be physically incapable of embarrassing himself in front of Dean by then though, so it was for the best.

He stopped at the front desk to ask about the elevator. He was informed that the repairman hadn't even arrived yet, but the woman on duty cheerfully insisted it would be up and running in just a few hours. "There's really nothing wrong with it," she said, "but someone complained about it being noisy to the corporate office and they insisted we shut it down until it's been inspected."

"Well, better safe than sorry," Sam said, feeling slightly guilty and slightly defensive at the same time.

"I heard," she whispered, leaning forward, "that it was just some guy scamming a free upgrade. People do that. They complain just to get free things. Never mind how much it inconveniences everyone else."

Sam no longer felt even the slightest bit guilty. "Actually, that guy was my husband and he was just trying to make sure your death trap of an elevator didn't kill anyone."

Her face froze in her default hospitality-smile position and, after a beat, she said, "Have a nice day."

Sam decided that the grocery store was more important than a jog. Dean had requested snacks, but if the elevator might be out for the rest of the day, he should probably stock up on more substantial food. He found a convenience store down the block where he got a box of cereal, a loaf of bread and miscellaneous sandwich fixings, two frozen pizzas, and a gallon of milk. It seemed inadequate given Dean's ability to devour food, but was about the limit of what he was willing to carry up to the twelfth floor.

Back at the hotel, he snagged a few doughnuts and bottles of orange juice off the continental breakfast bar, shared a frosty nod with the desk clerk, and trudged back up the stairs. He'd talked about the exercise clearing his head, allowing him to think about the case and maybe come up with a new angle, but instead his mind was fully preoccupied with Dean. 

The situation was no longer a fleeting impure thought. He'd caught himself feeling _jealous_ of the way Dean had looked at the waiter the night before. He'd felt _smug_ playing along with Dean's honeymoon cover and calling him his husband to the desk clerk. He couldn't remember how long it had been since Dean _hadn't_ intruded into one of his jerk-off fantasies. And despite telling himself that he just needed to get laid to take the edge off, he had no actual interest in hooking up with some stranger.

He was halfway up the stairs when he realized that neither of them had swim trunks. He could have bought them each a pair while he was out, but it was too late now to go back down, especially with an armload of groceries.

He was, as predicted, a sweaty mess when he finally trudged into the hotel room. Dean was sitting on the sofa in a towel. He looked up from his laptop and recoiled. "Ew!"

"Tell me about it," Sam panted, dumping the groceries on the kitchen counter. "What happened to the hot tub?"

"Just came in to cool off for a bit. I was getting so comfortable I was starting to drowse off. I figured I'd see what I could find online."

"Any luck?" Sam asked as he put away the food. 

"I've been trying to dig up more info on our victims, trying to find a common… anything. _Tales from the Crypt_ guy was Henry Kagan, ninety-one, retired, widowed more than twenty years ago, no kids, no surviving next of kin. He lived in a mobile home park, but like a fancy one, that's apparently a thing down here. I talked to a gal in the park's management office. She describes him as normal and boring."

"Isn't he the one who was supposed to be a big film buff though?" Sam asked, remembering the first article he'd read. He tossed Dean a bottle of orange juice and set the doughnuts on the coffee table. "Is there a connection there?"

"Not so much of a film buff as it turns out. He was a lawyer in Hollywood. Movie studio contracts, distribution deals, sounded dull frankly, but he'd apparently talk your ear off about the time he had a lunch meeting with John Ford or rode in the same elevator with Barbara Stanwyck. So, more into name-dropping celebrities than the films themselves. I also got the impression that he was starting to lose it a little. She said he'd corner you with the same story over and over again, like he thought he'd never told it before. So… really old guy in failing health dies of a heart attack. Nothing even remotely hinky there."

"Except exactly a week later, a woman dies of 'natural causes' in the same theater," Sam said. 

" _Love Story_ woman was Allison Carter, twenty-four, single, no kids, sold property insurance, local born and raised. I haven't been able to get a hold of any of her friends. The cell-phone generation doesn't answer unknown calls or return messages apparently. Talked to her boss, but it was the generic 'so sad, such a loss, good worker, she'll be missed' that I imagine he'd say about anybody. He confirmed what the coroner said though. She hadn't taken a sick day all year. Definitely did not have a hidden case of late-stage Leukemia."

" _Godfather_ guy?"

"Hank Orson, fifty-seven, two grown children, one grandkid, pharmacist, lived in Minnesota, on vacation with his wife. She apparently wanted to spend the afternoon at a history museum and he skipped out to watch a movie instead. And _Jaws_ woman was Kimberly Jones, twenty-seven, divorced, real estate agent…" He trailed off and sighed before adding, "one kid."

"Shit," Sam said quietly.

"Yeah. I talked to her ex-husband. They shared custody. It sounds like they were on polite enough terms, but he couldn't give me any information about her day-to-day life. He's trying to protect the kid from the gorier details. He's hoping the news cycle will have moved on to something else by the time school starts up in the fall, otherwise the other kids are going to give him an earful." 

Dean closed the laptop and grabbed a doughnut. His towel shifted as he did so, exposing his thigh nearly all the way up to his crotch and only the tiniest additional movement would reveal those last few inches. 

"Okay, so, uh, the victims seem random," Sam said trying to distract himself. "It's obviously something about the location."

"The only death even in the vicinity was a junkie ODing down the alley back in the late 1990s. I _did_ pull up a possible angle on Price's mother. Scott's ex-wife used to work at a hippie bookstore that sold crystals and crap. It's grasping at straws, but sometimes you get some witchy overlap there. However, she's remarried and lives in San Francisco and Scott's been dead for years, so if she did curse the theater, I have no explanation for why it would only be kicking in just now."

"Do we have contact info for her? If she knew there were unintended consequences, she might be willing to reverse the spell?"

"Called her. She denies it. She says I'm completely misrepresenting Wiccan beliefs. I mean, on the surface, she sounds harmless. So, I honestly don't know. Oh!" Dean slapped his bare thigh, which sent a ripple across the meat of his leg. "One interesting thing. The old guy's bowling alley might be haunted now. They said he used to go every Monday night with the same group of old farts. Ever since he died, these guys have been picking up crazy spares."

"So, his ghost might still be playing for his bowling team?"

"As hauntings go, it sounds pretty harmless, but we ought to stop by and check it out. Being killed by whatever this thing was might just make him vengeful enough to cause trouble later on down the line. That still doesn't help us with the first case though."

Sam chugged his orange juice and tried to keep his mind on Dean's words and off of his thighs. "It might be worth re-interviewing Carl and Krissy Anne in addition to talking to Sophie. Take them out for coffee or something. Talk to them away from work. Maybe get them to open up a little more. There's got to be _something_ we've missed."

"Another day," Dean said. "Hose some of that sweat off and come join me in the hot tub. Actually, no, go get us some ice first. Soft drinks too unless you just want water. We can stay in the tub longer if we have something cold to drink on hand."

"Uh." Sam struggled to find a way to decline the hot tub invitation based on his lack of swim trunks when it clearly hadn't deterred Dean at all. 

"I'd go, but—" Dean smirked and gestured at his towel which he only just seemed to notice was barely covering him. "—no pockets for my keycard."

Sam nodded. "Right, ice." Sam would just go get some ice and then he would get naked in a hot tub with Dean because somehow that was a thing that made sense maybe. Really it did. If Sam could just get a grip and remember that Dean was his brother, the same brother he'd shared beds with and sometimes skinny dipped with and shared countless motel bathrooms with, there was no reason whatsoever for Sam to make this weird.

He retrieved the ice and then jumped into the shower for maybe two minutes, just long enough to do as Dean suggested and rinse off enough of the sweat to keep the hot tub clean. He debated his entrance. Towel modestly around his hips or just sashay out full-frontal? Dean had played it so blasé earlier, that he felt he had to match his indifference. 

Sam flipped the towel over his shoulders and walked out onto the deck with the ice bucket and glasses. He was rewarded when his brother did a double-take, but Dean recovered quickly and only asked him to set the things down within reach of his spot in the tub. Dean was presumably naked, but the jets kept the water too agitated to see anything. Once Sam got in, this was going to be easier than skinny dipping.

He eased himself in, allowing his skin to gradually acclimate to the hot water. It felt almost too hot at first, but Dean seemed perfectly comfortable. He waded in and the water lapped at his thighs. Just a few more inches and he would be modestly out of sight. 

"Oh, hang on," Dean said. "Sunscreen."

"I'll get it next time I get out," Sam protested, quickly sinking below the water. "I'll be okay for a few minutes."

"Nope. Your un-flannelled Kansas ass needs sunscreen. Out now."

Dean got out of the tub and started reapplying his own sunscreen and Sam had little choice but to follow. He was honestly grateful for all eleven flights of stairs. Wearing himself out like that had been pretty smart thinking, but he also tried to focus on mental images of cockroaches and the old people from the nursing home and how completely disgusting Dean was when he ate with his mouth open.

It was effective. Somehow two naked brothers slathering themselves up with lotion wasn't porn-y at all… as long as Sam was so physically exhausted that he wanted a nap and so mentally focused on gross things that he was having trouble even processing what Dean was saying.

"Sorry, what?"

"Before we get back in the tub, we should check the Internet and see if we're missing any good movies at The Festival today," Dean said.

"Oh, it's not on their website. You could try calling though."

"How can a movie theater not have their movie times on the website?"

"Oh, they have the _times_ ," Sam said, retreating back into the water, "just not which movies are playing."

"That makes no sense. Hang on, you missed a spot."

Dean followed him back into the tub and rubbed his hands over Sam's back. Sam was unprepared and let a faint moan slip out.

"I know, right? We should put a hot tub in the bunker. This is awesome."

Sam laughed a little nervously and sank down, letting the hot water rise all the way up to his neck. Dean tossed the bottle of lotion onto the deck and joined him. He sat surprisingly close to Sam's side, but of course it kept the sun out of both of their eyes and allowed them to talk over the noise of the jets. It wasn't like Dean was planning to cuddle or anything.

Then Dean slid an arm over his shoulder. Sam froze, only to be embarrassed when he realized Dean was just reaching for a cup of ice water on the edge of the hot tub. He handed one to Sam and said, "Stay hydrated, right?"

Sam took a gulp of water and set the cup back down within easy reach. 

"This is the life, huh?" Dean asked.

"The life," Sam repeated, but he was thinking that it was kind of boring. All they could really see from this position was the sky. The sound of the waves and the laughing beachgoers wafted up from below, but it was all out of sight below the deck railing, which had been built like a wooden privacy fence, solid boards up to about waist high. 

Dean seemed to be amusing himself by playing in the jets of water with his toes. Sam joined him and soon they were toe-wrestling over the same jet. Dean tried to cheat by using his whole leg to shove him out of the way, but Sam outmaneuvered him by slipping his foot between Dean's feet. Dean cheated again by trying to tickle him which counted as a formal declaration of war and then it was _on_.

They were both splashing and hooting with laughter and then the jets suddenly stopped and all the bubbles settled and there was nothing to hide the fact that they were bare naked beneath the surface of the water, legs still partially tangled.

"Did we break it?" Sam asked.

"Naw," Dean panted, slightly out of breath from their horseplay. "It's on a timer." He pointed at a timer on the wall by the sliding glass door. "It's to save energy so you don't forget and leave it on all day. Or maybe it's just to remind you that you've been in the hot tub too long. You can't set it for any longer than twenty minutes."

"We haven't been in nearly that long," Sam said.

"Actually, we have. I reset it just before we got back in when I helped you with your lotion. And I was already in for maybe ten minutes before that, which puts me at about thirty."

Dean didn't immediately get out though. They moved a few inches apart so their legs were no longer overlapping and Sam tried not to stare at their dicks. The temperature was flattering as their size approached erect without the associated stiffness. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn Dean was hard, but he'd had occasional glimpses and he knew Little Dean tended to point straight up, nearly flush with his body. Sam envied that because it made Dean's erections easy to hide when clothed. Sam's erections tended to point out perpendicular to his body as if his body always wanted to announce to the world when Sam was having impure thoughts, even when he wasn't, because his dick was kind of a dick like that. 

"Is it lunchtime yet?" Dean asked. As many jokes as Sam had made about Dean thinking with his dick, it wasn't true at all. His dick was a distant second to his stomach. (His brain was probably in fourth place behind his guts.)

"Based on the shadows, I'd say more like second breakfast."

"Did you get good snacks?"

"I got stuff for sandwiches."

"But… _snacks_?"

"Frozen pizza. And I got cereal in case the elevator isn't working in time for breakfast tomorrow."

"Snacks," Dean repeated.

Sam laughed. "There's a candy machine next to the pop machine and ice down the hall."

"You could have led with that. Jeez. You had me worried for a minute there." Dean got out of the water and started to towel off and Sam reluctantly followed him.

"We should probably stay inside for a bit anyway," Sam said, trying to be reasonable, but thinking he could happily stay in the tub all day. "Take a break from the sun."

Dean grabbed his wallet and headed out the door, still wrapped only in a very small towel.

"Dean!"

Dean glanced at him quizzically, but when Sam waved scandalized at Dean's near nudity, he just shrugged. "I'll be right back. I probably won't even run into anyone."

"But… oh, my God." Sam braced himself for the inevitable scream, yet Dean returned with an armload of candy and soda pop without incident. He didn't even lose the towel until he was trying to kick the door closed behind him.

"A little help here."

Sam just laughed which was no less than Dean deserved. 

Dean huffed in mock indignation, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face. He dumped the stuff on the kitchen counter and announced, "Okay, here's the plan for the day. Candy break. Hot tub. Research. Hot tub. Lunch break. Maybe a little siesta during the sunniest part of the day. Followed by hot tub. Research. Hot tub. Research. Hot tub. If the elevator still isn't fixed, we can throw a frozen pizza in the oven. Hot tub."

"I'm a little unclear. Are we going back in the hot tub?"

"Now that you mention it, I think yes."

Sam picked up Dean's towel and tossed it to him. "C'mon, dude, before I go blind."

Dean smirked, but at least wrapped the towel around his hips. He grabbed his phone and made a call, listened for awhile, and then hung up without saying a word.

"That was weird," Dean said. "Even when you call the theater, the recording just lists the times without mentioning which movies are showing."

Sam snapped his fingers or at least attempted to snap his fingers. Pruney fingers weren't the best for snapping. " _That's_ what I forgot to tell you. When I pretended to be doing a marketing survey, everyone said they just stopped by because they'd been there before or had heard about the place from someone else _or_ because they found a photocopied flyer on their car at the beach. Half of them didn't even know what movie they were seeing before they arrived to buy a ticket. In fact, the _only_ people who knew what movie they were going to see were the ones who got a flyer at the beach. The marquee only lists times. The website only lists the _menu_. The posters on the wall are just old posters that don't seem to have anything to do with coming attractions. They don't even show movie trailers in their own theater."

"So they do zero advertising, but people still show up regularly?"

"Almost zero advertising. Hang on." Sam went to his bag and dug out a folded piece of paper. "I forgot I had this."

He unfolded it and smoothed out the creases as best as he could so Dean could see. The header read "[CLASSIC FILMS AT THE FESTIVAL](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/b1uemorpho/21390328/23402/23402_800.jpg)" and there was a clipart filmstrip border. The paper was a dull beige with streaks like the machine it was printed on hadn't been cleaned recently. 

"This is their only marketing?" Dean asked. "I've seen teenage garage bands with better posters."

Sam pointed to Tuesday. "So this was the matinee that no one showed up for."

Dean read the listing aloud, "' _The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Zant_ in German with English subtitles.' Gee, I wonder why no one showed up. Man, there's no theme here at all. Artsy foreign film followed by suspense drama followed by a disaster flick. Mostly 70s, but there's a couple here from the early 80s and Butch and Sundance were 68 or 69, I think." 

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Even when they have the potential for a theme, they blow it. Look, yesterday, they had two Woody Allen movies, but with a Goldie Hawn flick in the middle. Today, it's another Woody Allen followed by another Goldie Hawn. How hard would it be to swap those around? It's like they're just pulling things out of the vault at random."

"The showtimes don't make sense either," Dean said. "They're doing the exact same start times every day regardless of the length of the film. I've never seen a theater do that. They don't have a noon showing at all, not even on the weekends. You'd think they want this business to fail the way they're running it."

"They even misspelled daiquiris," Sam said with a snort.

Dean frowned at the page where it urged the reader to _TRY OUR FAMOUS DAKQUEREES!_ "Yeah, man, first thing I noticed. Oh, but, hey, later tonight they've got _Coffy_ followed by _Foxy Brown_. That would be worth going out for. Pam Grier double feature."

"Sure," Sam agreed, grabbing a can of root beer from Dean's stash. "That still leaves us plenty of time for the hot tub. Speaking of, I think I've cooled off enough. Meet you when you're done with your candy break."

Sam headed out to the deck. He reset the timer on the jets and shed his towel, expecting to be able to slip into the water before Dean followed him out. Dean still had classic Dean timing though and walked out onto the deck at the exact moment Sam dropped his towel.

"Did you reapply your sunscreen?" Dean asked.

"I just put it on less than half an hour ago," Sam protested.

"You have to keep reapplying it," Dean insisted. "Especially when you've been playing in the jets. Here. Give me your hands."

Sam set his root beer on the edge of the tub and then obediently held out both hands. Dean squeezed an excessive amount of lotion into both of them and then a good portion into his own hand. 

"You take the front. I'll cover the back." Dean stepped around behind him and started rubbing down his back. Sam smeared lotion over his shoulders and arms, but still had a ridiculous amount of lotion left over. Without warning, Dean dropped down and smeared lotion over the backs of Sam's legs. " _All_ over. You don't want a sunburned dick, do you?"

Sam squeaked. _Did Dean just tell him to touch his dick? Like, right there in front of him?!_ "I'll be underwater. I'm fine."

"Nah, you can still burn in shallow water. I learned that lesson the hard way one time." Dean's fingers traced repeatedly over Sam's calves, working the lotion in between his stubborn leg hairs.

"That might have something to do with the fact that you glow in the dark." Sam's hands hovered above his crotch, unsure how he was expected to accomplish what Dean was suggesting without it getting really weird.

"Do I need to cite sources like Wikipedia? I can get the laptop if you want to argue about this."

"Okay. Okay." Sam completely agreed with Dean's reasoning in every way and yet… Dean was touching Sam's legs while Sam's hands moved to his own dick and abdomen and, while he was just trying to follow orders and apply the sunscreen, it was turning him on, and this was just not the time for that. He quickly withdrew his hands and tried rubbing the excess lotion on his thighs instead. 

"Don't forget this part," Dean said and, without warning, slapped Sam on the ass. That was all it took for Sam to go fully hard. He was so stunned that he froze in place and didn't move when Dean went to get more lotion which meant Dean got an eye full. "Oh!"

Dean coughed and stepped back and _looked straight at Sam's undeniable throbbing erection_ and then looked up at Sam's face and then flicked his eyes downward one last time as if he still didn't quite believe what he'd seen. Sam just stood there like a statue. He didn't even try to cover himself because it wouldn't fool either of them, and the mere act of touching himself at just that moment might have been too much.

Then Dean laughed. It was Dean's nervous laugh. Sam didn't know how he was going to do it, but he sensed Dean was about to employ his super powers of denial. He was going to make a joke and, yes, Sam would be embarrassed, but somehow, _somehow_ it would all be okay. As humiliated as he was, the sound of Dean's laugh automatically relaxed him.

"Sorry, Sammy, if I had known you were into being spanked, I would have kept my hands to myself."

It could have worked. Somewhere in some alternate universe another Sam Winchester laughed and grabbed the towel off the deck and snapped Dean with it and countered with a joke of his own and it was all forgotten a moment later. Unfortunately _this_ Sam Winchester's dick bucked a mile in the air and pre-ejaculate oozed forth like a leaky faucet. Sam had never been into being spanked before, but as soon as Dean said it, Sam knew he wanted it. Wanted it _from Dean_ at any rate, because, of course, he had some weird Daddy-fetish for Dean on top of all their other dysfunctional shit. The idea of _Dean_ taking him over his knee and slapping his ass red (because Sam had been such a very bad boy, but maybe afterward Dean would forgive him and kiss it better) made him shudder with desire. He whimpered, half with embarrassment and half with need.  
   
Dean's laugh died on his lips and his eyes dropped to his feet. "I, I, I did _not_ mean to—I'm sorry. Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I never—I wouldn't have—I shouldn't—" Dean clutched at his own towel as if he were suddenly afraid Sam would try to ravish him, as if Sam would ever do such a thing. Dean cleared his throat and his voice dropped an octave and the next words were _an order_. He thumbed at the sliding glass door and said, "You go take care of that. Work out your extra energy. Come back out here when you're yourself again."

Sam hesitated, equal parts hopeful and fearful that Dean would make eye contact, but Dean kept his head down. Sam couldn't take it any longer; Dean was actually starting to shake with anger. Sam fled inside the hotel room.

He still had so much sunscreen on his hands that they kept slipping as he tried to work the zipper on his bag, but the lotion he was scrambling for was a different kind of lotion. He finally managed to retrieve it and retreated to the bathroom. He frantically washed his hands, soaping them free of whatever chemicals the sunscreen contained. He then locked the bathroom door even though he knew—rationally—that Dean wouldn't dare walk in on him now. 

He was both angry at himself and mortified and yet neither of those things quelled his arousal. Dean had touched his butt and joked about spanking him—in an overtly sexual way—and Dean had watched as Sam nearly lost it and then Dean had _ordered_ him to go jack off. At that very moment, Dean was outside in nothing but a towel or probably in the hot tub naked already and fully aware that Sam was inside touching himself at the same time.

Sam dropped his head. He couldn't even stand to face himself in the mirror right now and he still didn't stop. He squeezed out a handful of lotion and reached back between his legs, bypassing his dick altogether, and slid a slippery finger up his ass. Ass play was not generally his thing, a few college experiments notwithstanding, but he couldn't shake the mental image of Dean spanking him—the real Dean who had in actual fact slapped his ass just moments before and the fantasy Dean who would pull down Sam's pants and spank him again and again and again.

The act of being undressed by Dean kept circling back into the fantasy. Dean undressing him or ordering him to undress himself. Dean ordering him to touch himself. Dean spanking him. It was a weird power fantasy that Sam seemed to have cast himself on the wrong side of. 

He wanted the real Dean who hugged him when he needed it most and told him he was the most important thing in the world to him. However, the real Dean would never do the things he was craving as he slid a second finger up inside himself. So his fantasy Dean transformed into black-eyed Dean. _That_ was a Dean he could imagine dragging his clothes off, slapping his ass, shoving fingers up his rectum. 

Sam bent over, spread his legs wide, and leaned on the counter, letting his chest take his weight. He imagined what he must look like from that angle, what Dean would see if he did walk through the door, imagined black-eyed Dean unbuttoning his shirt, dropping his pants. That Dean wouldn't even hesitate. He'd just shove his dick right inside Sam. No guilt about what Mom would think. No concern for taboo or shame.

It wasn't working. Physically, he was so close, but his mind wouldn't let go of the swirl of anxieties that held him back. He felt dirty and pathetic. There was no orgasmic bliss to be found this way. He slipped his fingers out, stood up straight, and washed his hands again. There was a red line on his arm where it had been trapped against the edge of the counter as he'd attempted in vain to pleasure himself. Somehow it made him feel even more pitiful. What kind of loser was he that he couldn't even masturbate right?

Sam stepped into the shower and turned on only the cold water. It took longer than he expected for his erection to finally wilt. He stood under the spray until he was so cold that it hurt, until he started to laugh with the absurd realization that he was torturing himself, literally, as if he hadn't faced enough enemies in his life. He pawed at the faucet awkwardly, his fingers too cold to really work right, until he succeeded in shutting the water off. "Pull yourself together. Think. You can fix this."

The first step was to get dressed. The whole nudity thing just was not working out for them. He toweled off and left the bathroom. The air conditioning in the suite made his shivering worse. The bitch of it was that the hot tub would be the perfect thing to warm himself back up, but he couldn't face Dean just yet. He fumbled his way into clean clothing. Getting his boots on took forever because he couldn't stop his fingers from shaking.

"Hey, Dean, I'm going to run out to the store. Be back in a bit."

There was no answer from the hot tub and though his first instinct was that Dean was still upset and not speaking to him, he realized that he couldn't hear the jets. 

Sam approached the sliding glass door and looked out. 

The hot tub was empty. Dean was gone.  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want everyone to appreciate how much work I put into [the crappy flyer](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/b1uemorpho/21390328/23402/23402_800.jpg). :-)


	6. This Whole Relaxing Thing

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam did a panicked spin around the suite, which he knew was utterly ridiculous even as he did it. Dean was _not_ playing hide-and-seek behind the sofa or the kitchen counter, but Sam looked anyway. He couldn't stop himself. He looked for Dean. He looked for a note. He checked his phone, but there were no texts. He tried down the hall by the vending machines. Nothing. Dean was just gone.

Which did not technically interfere with Sam's plan because he was going to go out anyway, but it gave the voice in his head more ammunition. _Dean hates me. Dean's left me._ Sam started down the stairs reassuring himself that Dean would never walk out on a case, no matter how angry he was at Sam. 

There were a lot of stairs, however, and that gave him a lot of time to think. The case was going nowhere. They were pretty much grasping at straws and just killing time waiting for a break. It wouldn't be the first time they'd been stumped and, as long as Price didn't start showing killer movie matinees again, they could even walk away calling it a minor win. If you looked at it that way, it was plausible that Dean _had_ left.

Had Dean taken his stuff with him? Sam couldn't remember. The more he thought about it though, the more convinced he became that the room had been empty. 

Sam needed to get directions from the desk clerk, but he went to the parking garage first. It would accomplish nothing, but he had to see for himself that the car was gone.

The car was not gone. 

Sam was startled to find the Impala parked exactly where they'd left it. Wherever Dean had gone, it was within walking distance. A bar maybe? Sam didn't think it was even noon yet. He realized with annoyance, that in his rush, he'd left both his watch and his phone upstairs. 

He went back to the front desk. It was the clerk from the other night, the one who'd had to hand-deliver their new room keys to the eighth floor. "Hey, um… "

"Monday at the earliest," the young man said with a resigned expression.

"Excuse me?"

"They had to order parts. The whole cable system was shot. It's practically a rebuild."

"Oh."

"The repair guy said we're lucky no one died. He was kind of pissed."

" _He_ was kind of pissed?" Sam repeated. "Speaking as the last person who used the elevator…"

"I hear you," the clerk said, unfazed. "It's supposed to be re-inspected regularly, like they are _legally_ required to check it on a regular schedule and somehow they just haven't for ages and the repair guy said being this close to the ocean, they're supposed to do maintenance even more often. Y'know, moisture, salt air. So…"

Sam became aware that the clerk was tapping a Starbucks gift card on the counter. "So…?"

"Your husband was really mad."

"You saw Dean?"

"He yelled at me until I gave him a Starbucks gift card."

"Do you know where he went?"

"Starbucks?" he suggested with a shrug.

The clerk tapped the card on the counter again and cleared his throat until it finally clicked in Sam's brain.

"Ah. I would like to lodge a formal complaint about your hotel nearly killing us."

"Oh, I do apologize, sir. We believe the health and safety of our guests is of utmost concern and as a token of our appreciation, I'm authorized to present you with this gift card." He handed the card to Sam and added, "Is there anything else I can do to make your stay more enjoyable?"

"How much is on this?" Sam asked.

The clerk shrugged and dropped his customer-service voice. "I dunno. Probably ten bucks. Corporate is cheap."

"Uh, thanks. So, do you know if there are any clothing stores in the area that sell swimwear?"

"Yeah, there's a tourist shop that specializes in beach gear two blocks north, across from the Starbucks actually."

"Thanks." 

Sam turned to leave, but the clerk said pointedly, "Is there _anything else_ I can do to make your stay more enjoyable?"

"Uh…"

"I offered to move you to a lower floor, but your husband insisted that you preferred the hot tub unit, which is only available on twelve."

"Dean said that? Just now?" So maybe Dean _wasn't_ that weirded out by Sam popping a boner by the hot tub?

The clerk nodded and continued, "Nearly all our other guests have already insisted on being relocated to lower floors and a lot have checked out entirely. I'm afraid I couldn't get you anything lower than the fourth floor anyway."

"Oh." Sam still didn't see the point of this, but the clerk was obviously trying to get at something.

"Yeah, those top floors are pretty empty. It's just going to waste, but you know the hotel can't expect to make any money off the top floors without a working elevator."

"Oh! Ahem. I would like to formally request a…" Refund? Discount? Sam wasn't sure how far he should push this. "…a full refund?"

The clerk gave him a thumbs up. "Oh, I do apologize, sir. We believe the convenience and satisfaction of our guests is of utmost concern and as a token of our appreciation, I'm authorized to offer you a full refund." He tapped a few keys on the computer and printed a receipt showing Sam and Dean Allman owed nothing for the week they'd booked. "Is there _anything else_ I can do to make your stay more enjoyable?

Sam gave up. "What else?"

The clerk side-eyed a fruit basket at the end of the counter.

"Seriously, I can get a fruit basket out of this too?"

The clerk nodded.

"Can I pick that up on my way back in?"

"Sure."

Sam exited the lobby in a much better mood. Dean was somewhere within walking distance. He hadn't taken the car and left. He apparently didn't even mind continuing to walk up eleven flights of stairs where they would continue to share a hot tub and a bed. That was… unexpected. He still wondered where Dean had gone, apparently in too much of a hurry to catch on to the clerk's hints. Normally Dean was pretty observant, not to mention all over free stuff.

He headed up the street towards the tourist shop. He was still a block away when he spotted it. Garish towels and inflatable dolphins hung from the awning. A stack of coolers formed a pyramid in the front window.

The interior of the shop was cluttered with overstuffed racks of everything the poorly-dressed tourist was wearing this season. One wall was devoted to T-shirts with funny sayings on them, a weird mix of forwards-from-grandma and vulgar sophomoric jokes. Sam walked by the T-shirts and women's wear and honed in on the men's swim trunks at the back of the shop. 

There was a mannequin in comically small Speedo briefs that worried him for a moment, but most of the swim trunks on display were baggy boardshorts which was exactly what Sam had been hoping for. A pair of purple shorts with an abstract swirl pattern caught his eye. They weren't exactly attractive, but they were slightly less ugly than some of the other options. He reached for them at the exact same moment as someone else on the opposite side of the rack.

"Oh, sorry!" 

"Sam?"

"Dean?"

The wall of swimwear parted and Dean peeked through the rack. "Hey there. Great minds think alike, huh?"

Great minds were apparently thinking that Sam's dick needed to be under wraps. Sam felt a flush creep up his cheeks, but fortunately, Dean seemed to have already moved on to his happy place where they didn't talk about things like that. 

"I was thinking about these for you," Dean said and shoved a pair of shorts through the rack to Sam. 

They had a sand-colored background with green seaweed and red crabs in the foreground. The crabs had giant pincers and all Sam could think was, "That looks painful."

Dean laughed. "Here. _These_ are totally you."

A pair of tie-dye shorts came flying over the rack. "Dude, knock it off."

And just like that, the world was normal again. They spent twenty minutes or more picking out the ugliest swimsuits they could find for each other, which only got worse when Dean found a rack of Hawaiian shirts to mix and match with. They could have gone on longer, but Dean's stomach audibly rumbled and he needlessly announced that he was hungry.

"I've got a Starbucks card," Sam offered. "They sell sandwiches, don't they?"

"Oh, me too. _And_ I talked the clerk into giving us 30% off our room."

Sam laughed. "Seriously? Is that all? What happened to the Dean charm? I got us a _full refund_."

"What? No way. Did you do your puppy-dog eyes at him? Because that's cheating."

"I don't even know what that means. I don't 'do' puppy eyes."

Dean grabbed an armload of things and walked up to the register. Sam wasn't sure what Dean had in his hands and he suspected that Dean hadn't really been paying that much attention either. They walked out with two Hawaiian shirts, two beach towels, two pairs of swim trunks, two pairs of flip flops, two ridiculous canvas hats, and a frisbee. 

Sam waited until Dean was stepping off the curb before announcing, "Meet you at Starbucks. I forgot something." He bought two pairs of sunglasses and a bottle of suntan lotion, but both were mainly to camouflage the purchase of a pair of tight-fitting swim briefs to wear under his new trunks. Safety in layers.

They burned through both of their gift cards on coffee and food. Dean suggested they hit the beach so they took turns changing in the coffee shop's bathroom. Sam ended up in a dreadful orange-and-blue Hawaiian shirt and blue-and-white boardshorts with little seahorses all over them. He would have complained, but Dean's shorts had starfish on them and his shirt was a pattern of clownfish, so really Sam had the better deal.

Sam also took care to thoroughly apply his own sunscreen. He wasn't going to make that mistake again. They put on their floppy hats and walked back to the hotel's parking garage by way of the sidewalk closest to the beach. It meant they had a better view of the beach parking lot than of the beach, but it was about as close as they could get without dodging cars or hiking through the sand. 

Dean joked about finding Sam a girlfriend every time they passed a moderately attractive woman, but in truth, the view didn't look much like an MTV Spring Break special. There were as many children and elderly people as anyone else. 

Sam had intended to just drop their clothes off at the car, but once they were there Dean suggested a side trip to the possibly-haunted bowling alley their first victim used to visit. Sam glanced down at their ridiculous outfits.

"No badges. We're just average tourists there to bowl a few frames. It could be fun."

So they drove to the bowling alley, where Dean flirted with the woman at the shoe rental desk, and then if they weren't idiotic-looking enough, they had to put on the alley's red-and-blue clown shoes with giant numbers on the back. It amounted to nothing. Rumor had it there were more spares than typical on the old guy's bowling night, but beyond that, there was nothing unusual. Certainly nothing worth the effort of a salt-n-burn.

They drove back to the hotel in defeat. Dean grabbed a couple of water bottles from the trunk and they headed down to the beach. On the edge of the beach itself, they found a vendor selling snow cones and Dean insisted on buying them each one, chivalrously announcing, "My treat," as if they didn't pool all their funds anyway. 

They staked out a space on the beach fairly close to the water, laying out their towels, and sitting down to finish their snow cones. 

"We need to do this more often," Dean announced. "Everybody needs a vacation, right? Doctors, nurses, police, firefighters, the most important jobs in the world and they still take time off now and then. Hell, even soldiers get leave. I say we mark it on the calendar. Once a year, we stop looking for trouble, no new cases, and just take a week off. Guilt free."

Sam agreed with the sentiment wholeheartedly even as he simultaneously felt guilty for not calling Mom yet today. The woman was back from the dead; they should be worshipping the ground she walked on. And yet Sam had only remembered to call her _once_ since they left Kansas. "Do you have your phone?" Sam asked. "I left mine in the hotel room."

Dean shook his head. "I left it in the car. Why?"

"I… I don't know. I think I'm just having trouble with this whole relaxing thing. It's like I've forgotten how."

"How long has it been?"

"How long has _what_ been?" Dean seemed like he was being rather specific when Sam was just talking about the abstract idea of letting his guard down and relaxing. He probably meant sex. Which was particularly annoying, because as much as he wanted to protest Dean's sex-obsessed worldview, it would be pretty hypocritical considering how much he'd had sex on the brain himself lately.

"Don't make that face. Remember after Piper? You admitted you needed that. Hell, you were even in a good mood for at least three days afterward. _Tell me_ you've seen action since Quaker Valley, because, dude, that has to be going on, what, a year now?"

Sam slurped at the straw in his snow cone and didn't comment.

"You know what's an even better hook-up spot than a nightclub?" Dean asked. He seemed unfazed by Sam ignoring him and continued after only a brief pause. "A nightclub filled with ladies in bikinis fresh off the beach. We're hitting a club tonight."

They finished their snow cones in silence and then buried the trash along with their wallets and keys in the sand under their towels. 

Sam kept his hat and sunglasses on, but removed his shirt and weighed it down with the bottle of suntan lotion. As Sam stood and kicked off his flip-flops, Dean said, "Sunscreen."

Sam assured him that he'd taken care of it and didn't wait around lest Dean ask for assistance with his own. If he got burned it would be his own fault for being so damn irresistible.

He splashed his way into the water, avoiding squealing children as he went. He wondered vaguely why so many kids were on the beach on a weekday and then remembered it was summer break. Dean was right. _Everyone_ who wasn't them took a vacation from time to time.

Dean splashed in after him a few minutes later, smelling almost edible. Sam had done too good of a job picking out the suntan lotion. 

Dean waved the frisbee and said, "Go deep!" and Sam tried to drag his mind out of the gutter, but mostly failed.

They played frisbee in the ocean. Sam just occasionally lost his footing on the deeper waves and had to tread water for a few seconds at a time, but the gulf waves were mild, breaking into foam only at the shoreline where the beachcombers were wading.

It was better exercise than he expected and he lost himself in the exhilaration of mindlessly chasing the flying disc. The game finally ended when Sam aimed too far to Dean's left and the frisbee landed on the water near a group of children. The delighted kids found it bobbing in the waves like a gift from heaven and Dean, being Dean, didn't have the heart to take it back from them.

Sam didn't blame him, but it was his brotherly duty to tease so when Dean sheepishly swam back empty-handed, Sam stole his hat, leading to a game of keep-away. Sam had the advantage of longer arms and Dean had the advantage of fighting dirty, apparently more than willing to drown Sam for an ugly hat. So keep-away turned into water wrestling, which would have been a problem for Sam if he hadn't been so worn out. 

Dean feigned another lunge at the hat and while Sam was defending it, stole Sam's hat instead. Sam took pity on him and let him keep it.

"Yeah, fine, put your hat on. You really are looking a little pink there," Sam said.

Dean's smile dropped instantly, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses.

"We should probably take a break from the sun," Sam offered.

"Race you to the pier," Dean said instead and took off swimming before Sam could point out what a bad idea that was.

The pier was where the fishermen were, which meant it was where fishhooks were, and also fish and maybe also bigger things attracted to those fish and Sam's mid-American heart had a deeply ingrained fear of things that lurked in shadowy water. 

Sam swam after him, but Dean had too much of a head start. He knew better than to shout out _What about sharks?_ on a crowded beach and it took him a moment to remember the ME's words from the other day. "Longimanus, dude!"

It had the desired effect. Everyone else ignored him, but Dean immediately stopped swimming and even backpedaled slightly. "Where?!"

"No, just _theoretically_. You know, _if_ there were any, that's where they'd be."

"Bitch, I just pissed myself a little."

"Gross."

Dean splashed the contaminated ocean water on Sam. "Enjoy!"

"Ew! Jerk!"

"What? You think every kid out here hasn't already pissed in this? Not to mention what the fish do in it."

"That's nasty," Sam protested. "You have taken _all_ the romance out of the ocean."

"Saving the romance for the hot tub." Dean stopped splashing.

Sam half-regretted buying the sunglasses, because he had no read at all on Dean in that moment. Was he smirking? Leering? Were his eyes twinkling with light teasing amusement? Or narrowing with the memory of disgust? Sam had no clue.

But he was also grateful that he'd bought the sunglasses because that meant Dean couldn't see the flash of panic in his own eyes.

"C'mon," Dean said. "I need to rinse off the fish poop and put on more sunscreen."

Sam followed Dean out of the water and to a stand of public showers. It was essentially just a pole with faucets on four sides near the parking lot adjacent to the restrooms, hence public in every sense of the word, but it was good enough for rinsing off the salt and sand and the hopefully-imaginary kiddie pee and fish poop that Sam could now almost feel coating his skin.

He even rinsed out his—technically Dean's—hat and did his best to hose down his swim trunks while still wearing them. It felt mildly indecent, but he checked around to make sure no one else was near before giving his waistband a discreet tug to allow a stream of water down his front. 

"Really, Sam?"

He glanced up at Dean. "What? I don't want salt drying down there."

"You've got an inflated opinion of yourself if you think you need to double-bag that," Dean said and Sam realized he wasn't critiquing his public-shower technique but instead had noticed the second waistband of his undershorts.

"Whatever, jerk."

Sam walked back to where they'd left their towels. Even as he was walking, he realized his mistake—he could feel fresh sand building up on his feet and calves—but he couldn't bring himself to turn back and face Dean. He should have allowed himself to air dry a little before walking back out onto the sand. 

When he sat down on his towel, it immediately made his situation worse, because somehow the towel itself had gotten coated in sand in the time he'd left it.

Dean sat down on his own towel and announced. "Man, I never thought I'd find myself agreeing with Darth Vader."

Sam laughed. "And there were no snow cones on Tattooine, which extra sucked for him." 

Dean attempted to re-apply his sunscreen, but gave up when he realized he was just gluing the sand more firmly to his skin. "Seriously, it gets _everywhere_."

"Give it a few minutes to dry out and then you can just brush it off."

Dean grunted and tossed the bottle aside. 

They both ended up lying back on their sandy towels. The beach was anything but quiet. Children hooted and seagulls squawked and, in the distance, they could hear traffic. Yet it was still calming to lie in the warm sun with Dean's even breaths setting a hypnotic rhythm.

"Wakey, wakey."

Dean ran his hand along the side of Sam's face which was as nice as it was weird. "What?"

"Wake up already. I'm hungry."

"I wasn't sleeping. I was just relaxing."

"Dude, you were snoring."

"Was not," Sam insisted.

"Totally were."

He looked over at Dean and was startled to see him sitting directly on the sand and even more startled to realize Dean's towel was spread on top of Sam like a blanket. Okay, so _maybe_ he had actually fallen asleep. "What's this for? You don't have to tuck me in."

"I didn't want you to burn and I figure working you over with sunscreen while you were asleep would cross a line, even for us."

Sam blinked a few times at that. Dean's obsession with avoiding sunburns was understandable given that he was not the tanning type, but it almost seemed… "Dude you've got like twice as many freckles as you did at lunch."

Dean frowned as if he'd been insulted. Sam couldn't think of a good way of clarifying that his brother's freckles were adorable.

Dean stood up and tossed Sam's shirt at him. "C'mon. There's a place just down the beach that's supposed to have amazing burgers."

Sam stretched and put on the shirt and staggered awkwardly to his feet. He really _had_ conked out judging by how groggy he felt. He almost forgot to dig his wallet back out of the sand and likely would have if Dean hadn't said, "Hey, dumb ass," and pointed at the spot with his foot. He gathered up all his stuff, including their trash, and followed after Dean. 

After dropping off the trash in a barrel near the parking lot, he was confused when Dean turned and headed the wrong way. "The car's that way."

"It's walking distance. No need to move the car."

"But… don't we need to go back to the car to change into our clothes?"

Dean shook his head. "Florida's casual. We can go like this."

Sam took his hat off and shook sand out of it, both because he needed to and because he felt it helped make his point. "You want to go out in public like this?"

"We're already out in public like this."

"But a restaurant?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"I'm wearing flip-flops."

"It's Florida," Dean said. "Everyone will be wearing flip-flops."

Sam was too embarrassed to admit to Dean that his nether region was still damp thanks to his bright idea of wearing double layers. "I'm not sure that…" 

"I will bet you _daiquiris_ that half the people there are wearing flip-flops and at least one dude will walk in shirtless."

"Daiquiris?"

"If I'm right, this alcohol-free period of yours starts _after_ tonight's Pam Grier double feature."

"And if you're wrong, it's a _month_ without booze."

"Deal."

"Deal."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam should have known better because it wasn't like Dean to flippantly agree to a month without booze if he weren't sure of his odds. There was a hairy shirtless guy standing on the sidewalk immediately outside the place and though Sam insisted it didn't count since he wasn't inside, that became a moot point less than five minutes later.

It was loud and crowded, but the smell wafting off the grill made Sam agree that it was worth hanging around. He was suddenly too hungry to even consider leaving in search of alternatives. The hostess offered to put them on the list for a table while they waited at the bar, but Dean said they were just as happy to eat at the bar, which was when Sam realized that that was the plan all along. 

Dean proceeded to chat up every woman who passed by and steered any of them who seemed receptive in Sam's direction. This was apparently _Operation Sammy Needs To Get Laid So He Stops Acting Weird_. Unfortunately, it was earning them more glares from jealous boyfriends than anything else.

"C'mon, man, _try_. That last one was _hot_ and you just looked at her like she was trying to sell you life insurance."

"I was perfectly polite."

"Smokin' hot calls for more than perfectly polite."

"Sorry that I'm not the master of flirting that you are."

"Oh, that's bullcrap. A hottie like that, you smolder right back at her. I've seen you smolder. You could charm the pants off half a convent if you tried."

"Do nuns wear pants?" Sam asked.

"Put down your burger."

Which was easy for Dean to say because he'd already inhaled his. Sam was trying to savor his. "No."

"Put it down."

Sam had no idea why he followed Dean's orders anymore, but he put the burger down and wiped his hands off on his napkin. "What?"

"Here's your assignment. Do this _one thing_ and then I swear you can go back to eating your hamburger as slowly as humanly possible. I won't try to fix you up with anyone else for the rest of our time in Florida. Deal?"

"What's the one thing?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"I want you to look around this room. I want you to make an honest attempt at making eye contact with everyone in this room. The catch is, you have to _smolder_ while you're doing it."

"Smolder?"

"So, lose the stupid hat. Lose the glasses, because _eye contact_. And _smolder_." He snatched away Sam's hat and sunglasses as he talked, leaving Sam blinking in the now not-so-dimly-lit bar. Dean took off his own glasses and blinked as well, but shook it off and gestured at the room. "Smolder. For real. No half-assing it. It has to be an honest effort."

Sam scoffed, but if it would get Dean off his case, fine. He ran his fingers through his hair to try and shake out the worst of the hat hair. A few more stray grains of sand fell loose in the process. He was pretty sure he had to look awful, but whatever. He loosened up his posture and slouched back against the bar. 

Dean reached over and unbuttoned several buttons of his Hawaiian shirt.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

_I look like a total douche,_ Sam thought. _Fine. Whatever._ If that's what Dean wanted, he was going to smolder so hard that someone might walk across the room just to slap him.

He scanned the room, fighting the urge to look away and instead steadfastly maintained every fleeting eye contact. He attempted to include a pornographic leer as appropriate, but he was struggling not to laugh so it probably came across as a twisted smirk. Certainly most of the women he locked eyes with just looked weirded out. A blond near the window returned his smile, likely _not_ the type Dean had in mind, but maybe it counted. He snuck a glance at Dean to gauge his reaction, but oddly Dean was just looking at Sam.

"Can I finish my burger now?" he asked.

Dean nodded, soundly defeated by Sam's inability to pick up women on command.

Sam had just bitten into his burger when an unfamiliar voice said, "May I buy you a drink?" 

Based solely on Dean's double take, Sam knew without bothering to look over his shoulder who had just approached. Sam looked anyway. The blond man was almost as tall as Dean and a clingy tank top left no doubt that he worked out. Flustering Dean by itself was reason enough to keep flirting, but hell maybe this _was_ what Sam needed to work a few kinks out.

"Absolutely," Sam purred.

"Piña Colada?"

"My favorite."

"Since when do you _ever_ drink piña coladas?" Dean asked.

"Since when do _you_ drink daiquiris?" Sam countered.

"Since Krissy Anne slips them to me for free."

"Is this seat taken?" the blond asked, motioning to the seat next to Sam.

"No," Sam said.

"Yes," Dean said.

"Sorry," the man said. "I'm not intruding am I?"

"Not at all," Sam said.

"Yes," Dean said. "Very much with the intruding."

"Sorry. I just thought I was picking up on signals that you might be…"

" _Not_ available," Dean said.

"Available," Sam corrected. "Totally available."

"Really not," Dean said.

"You're cute when you're jealous, but you shoulda put a ring on it," Sam said waggling his fingers dismissively at his brother. Messing with Dean was even more fun than he expected.

The blond man laughed and ordered piña coladas for Sam _and_ Dean and then unexpectedly switched seats to sit on the other side of Dean. "No need to fight," he said. "I'm a peacemaker. I believe in compromise."

He leaned in and murmured something in Dean's ear that Sam didn't catch. Dean's eyes bugged out of his head and Sam watched as he flushed pink. Sam tensed, ready in case Dean was about to take a swing at the guy. Instead, Dean just shook his head and quietly, but firmly said, "No."

"No?" the man repeated.

"No."

"How about…?" He leaned in again and whispered something so close to Dean's ear that, for a moment, Sam thought he was nuzzling him. 

Dean nodded. Sam blinked. It was almost imperceptible, but it was definitely a nod. 

"Is that more like it?" the man purred.

Dean visibly swallowed and then cleared his throat. "Sorry. We're busy tonight."

The man shrugged and offered Dean his business card. "I'm local, so as long as you're in town. Give me a call."

He walked away leaving Dean bewildered and Sam amused. 

"What did he say?" Sam hissed as soon as the man was out of earshot.

"Finish your burger," Dean said. "We have places to be."

"No we don't. Your movie isn't for hours yet."

"Let's just go."

The bartender delivered their piña coladas and when Dean still fussed, Sam went for his kryptonite. "Do you have pie?" he asked the bartender.

"Key lime," the bartender answered.

Dean gave every indication that he had completely forgotten that the blond man had ever existed. Sam let him get away with it.   
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

They arrived at The Festival early. Krissy Anne barely raised an eyebrow at their outfits, only remarking, "Blending in with the locals, I see."

Sam put his foot down on the fishbowl daiquiris and insisted they limit themselves to normal-sized glasses. Dean was unfazed and announced, "Fine by me. We can try more this way. Work our way through the whole rainbow."

Krissy Anne started them with cherry and they'd were already on orange before the first film began. 

The cardboard boxes were gone. They finally identified the fatal seats by the new upholstery that didn't match the others. A closer inspection turned up nothing of interest. 

Dean parked himself in one of them, actively nudging Sam away. Sam wasn't sure if it was one of Dean's weird chivalrous moments where he was insisting on taking the slightly riskier position or if it was one of Dean's selfish moments of taking the newest and therefore cushiest seat. Either way, Sam figured if he asked why, Dean would only answer _Because I'm oldest_. If they lived into their hundreds Dean would probably still be pulling that crap on them. In fact, regardless of how long they lived, Dean was going to still be pulling rank in the afterlife.

Sam was annoyed just enough that he moved a few rows down to sit where one of the other victims had died. Dean barked out an annoyed, "Hey!" but didn't stop him.

The seat was indeed more comfortable than the flat worn seats in the rest of the theater, but he regretted the move as soon as the film started. The only thing that really made such films watchable was listening to Dean chuckle at the dirty jokes and make appreciative murmurs at the sex scenes and laugh outright at the bad stunts. Sitting alone, he found himself slipping into analytical film appreciation mode. He could write an essay on the film by the time it was over, but he couldn't say he'd enjoyed watching it. Dean on the other hand probably wasn't wasting any angst on the concept of modern white guilt in the context of 1970s blaxploitation films. 

They joined Carl on his smoke break in the alley during the extended lull between films. The warm night air came as a relief to Sam who had been starting to shiver in the theater in his beachwear.

"Why such a long time between showings?" Dean asked Carl. "You'd make more money if you fit more movies into the schedule."

Carl shrugged. He blew out a lungful of smoke and said, "Mr. Price does what Mr. Price wants to do. Longer breaks for me, so it's not like I'm going to complain."

Carl was a fairly useless witness. He was unobservant and uninterested. He'd noticed little and thought about it even less. 

"You're not worried about being out in the alley by yourself?" Sam asked, trying to draw Carl out a little. "The local cops think there's a maniac with a machete out there."

"Not a machete," Carl said. He took a drag on his cigarette, leaving them to wait until he got around to the exhale before he said, "That woman was killed by a shark."

"In the theater," Dean added. It was half a question though none of them doubted that that was where she died. But even a Winchester couldn't ignore the absurdity of it.

"Maybe." Inhale. Exhale. "I found the body in the theater." Inhale. Exhale. "But what if she actually died, like, _in the movie_." Inhale. Exhale. "People talk about movies transporting them to another world. What if those people actually were?" Inhale. Exhale. "Trippy, right?"

"Trippy," Sam agreed, reevaluating how much thought Carl had given the case.

"I mean, obviously that's bullshit, but no one noticed anything until the films were over, so I've been re-thinking the serial killer thing." Inhale. Exhale. "Either she's killed in the theater and the murderer carries half her body _out_." Inhale. Exhale. "Or she's killed somewhere else and the murder carries half her body _in_. The thing is… " Inhale. Exhale. "You can do a lot of shit in a dark theater without anyone noticing—like a _lot_ —but you know what you _can't_ do?" Inhale. 

Sam looked at Dean who only shrugged.

Exhale. "Stand up." Inhale. Exhale. "You stand up and people notice. They get pissed off. You stand up in a theater, you better be scuttling out to the bathroom saying 'Excuse me' the whole way." Inhale. Exhale. "So, you tell me, how do you hack someone to death and carry away half her body without anyone yelling, 'Yo, down in front!' Can't be done."

Carl put out his cigarette and they all walked back inside.

Sam and Dean argued about the order of banana and lemon in the daiquiri rainbow. Sam didn't care, but arguing with Dean was always entertaining. He wasn't sure if Dean had all these opinions in his head all the time or, as Sam thought more likely, he was just really good at rationalizing his decisions on the fly.

"No," Dean explained. "Banana has to come first. That puts it closer to the strawberry end of the spectrum and everyone knows that bananas go with strawberries."

"Okay, but we just finished orange which is a citrus fruit so lemon is a natural progression."

"No. You're wrong. _Lime_ is up next for the green following yellow and you _cannot_ do banana in between lemon and lime. That's against the natural order of things."

Sam accepted his banana daiquiri and headed back inside, making a beeline for the comfy seat in the center. Dean followed along and sat in the adjacent seat without comment or complaint. Sam supposed if he were normal it would bug him that he was literally sitting in the exact spot where someone had bled to death. He wasn't sure if it had been gunshot guy or shark girl, but someone had died _right here_ and even so he was still mainly interested in the fact that the chair had fresh padding.

Sam didn't wait for the air conditioning to get to him this time and just spread his towel over his legs, more sand magically falling out of it as he did so. Dean reverted to chivalrous mode and draped his own beach towel over both of their shoulders, which required leaning slightly closer together than normal.

"Thanks, man," Sam said.

"Never let it be said that I'm not a hoopy frood."

Sam adjusted the towel over his legs so they could share that as well and they settled in for _Foxy Brown_.

Having Dean close greatly enhanced the movie-going experience. They tried not to be too loud because, despite The Festival's comically bad business model, there were a surprising number of other movie patrons scattered throughout the house. But they were still able to share a laugh over the fake blood and awkwardly choreographed fight scenes. Dean audibly hissed through his teeth in embarrassment at the frequent n-bombs, which reassured Sam that Dean wasn't quite as thoughtless a redneck as Sam sometimes painted him to be. Everyone in the theater howled in disgust at the final scene.

"That was objectively terrible," Sam announced as the credits rolled. There was no reason to stay seated, but Sam just didn't have the energy to move.

"Pam Grier was hot," Dean said, but without his usual conviction.

"Pam Grier was hot, but Pam Grier notwithstanding, that was awful. I've seen this movie before. When I was twelve I think? How did I not remember how awful it was? Did we watch a censored version on TV maybe?"

"No," Dean said. "No, the whole point of those magical neon letters spelling out _Free Cable_ on the front of the motel was that it meant you got to see naked ladies and hear swearing. I remember the tits. I just didn't remember that it was quite that rapey and n-wordy."

A couple laughed as they exited the theater and it made Sam uncomfortable. "How can you walk out of that laughing?"

"Dude, _you_ laughed at that pickle jar joke."

"That wasn't funny-amused laughter," Sam protested. "That was shocked-horrified laughter."

"It was funny."

"It wasn't funny."

"He was the villain," Dean insisted. "You're supposed to cheer when the villain gets hurt in the end."

"Yeah, well, maybe I've just been tied up by a crazy woman with a knife more recently than you have, but that was freaking disturbing."

"Touché."

"Would you even recognize your boyfriend's penis out of context like that?" 

Sam had expected to horrify Dean into an abrupt change of subject, but instead, Dean actually responded.

"If he were my _steady_ boyfriend," Dean said. "I mean, your enemy hands you a pickle jar with a dick in it, you figure it's not random so you, y'know, look for distinguishing features."

"What kind of distinguishing features does a pickled dick have?"

"It wasn't pickled," Carl said walking in with a carpet sweeper and what appeared to be a plastic alligator head on a stick. "The joke was that it was in a pickle jar and a dick is sort of pickle shaped, but they wouldn't have bothered to pickle it. So it was just a severed dick, right?"

Carl parked the carpet sweeper in the middle of the aisle and opened up a big garbage bag. The plastic alligator had a squeeze-grip that let him pick up trash with its jaws. It appeared to be a child's toy so he still had to bend over to reach most things.

"But still," Sam said, "an anonymous severed dick. If you didn't yet suspect anything had happened to the guy, would you recognize his penis on sight? One dick looks pretty much like another, right?"

"If I pretend I don't know better can we stop having this conversation?" Dean asked. "Yo, Carl, what's the alligator on a stick for? It's only like a foot long, that can't be helping your back any."

"It's just so I don't have to touch anything. People are nasty. Case in point. See."

They craned their necks for a better look. The alligator had a used condom dangling from its plastic teeth.

"Oh, jeez!" Dean jumped out of his seat. "Tell me that did not happen just now while we were sitting here."

"Sorry, man. I did a quick walk-through cleaning after _Coffy_ and this wasn't here. This is definitely from the _Foxy Brown_ showing."

"Man, that was like thirty feet away from us," Sam said. 

"Like I said, you can get away with anything in a movie. This is not rare."

"That can't be comfortable," Sam said. He really wasn't clear on the logistics. It made the back of the Impala seem spacious. He supposed maybe short people had it a lot easier in that respect.

"What happened to Lamar?" Dean asked. "I thought he was on clean-up duty."

"Quit."

"That's got to be a record."

"Nope."

"Does this job really suck that bad?" Dean asked. "No offense, but it all seems pretty easy."

Carl nodded. "Easy, but boring. And the hours kind of suck if you care about a social life. It was actually easier when we had more part timers, college kids who worked only a night or two per week. But Mr. Price does what Mr. Price wants to do. Nobody asked me for advice on how to run the place." He paused cleaning for a moment. "Krissy Anne says you're talking to Sophie?"

"We hope to interview her tomorrow," Sam said.

"Tell her I said, 'Hey'."

"I know," Dean said with a nod. "Krissy Anne said to offer her her job back as well."

"That would be cool, but just mainly, y'know, say, 'Hey.'"

"Will do."

They waved Carl goodbye and headed out. Krissy Anne was arguing with a couple of guys who didn't want to accept that the bar was closed for the night so Dean went into chivalrous mode. It didn't go as smoothly as it could have because Dean wasn't quite as intimidating in a clownfish shirt and flip-flops as he normally was. If those guys had been smarter, they would have just taken Dean at his word, but as it was, Sam still walked away with no worse than a bruised knuckle so it was all good. 

Dean had a spring in his flip-flops the whole way back to the hotel. Sam swore that Dean _enjoyed_ getting into trouble. 

Back at the hotel, the friendly desk clerk was gone and the woman who had been rude about Dean was on duty. Sam snagged the fruit basket that was still on the counter and when she protested, he said, "I would like to formally complain about you personally trivializing my husband's concerns about the elevator which did, in fact, turn out to be malfunctioning."

She deflated and mumbled unenthusiastically, "I do apologize, sir. We believe the convenience and satisfaction of our guests is of utmost concern and as a token of our appreciation, I'm authorized to offer you this complimentary fruit basket."

"What was that about?" Dean asked, following Sam up the stairs.

"Free fruit," Sam answered.

The stairs took all the bounce out of Dean's steps after two flights and Sam took the opportunity to tease him.

" _This_ is why you should take up running. You're a solid sprinter, but you need to work on your endurance."

"Oh, I'll _show_ you endurance," Dean said and the race was on. He took off his flip-flops and ran up the stairs barefoot.

Sam won, by a solid enough margin that he could yell back down the stairs, "Come on, old man, where's that endurance you were going to show me!" just before Dean charged up the final distance and tackled him to the hallway carpet.

The fruit basket fell from his grasp, but its cellophane wrappings kept any of the fruit from falling loose. It really would have felt more poetic if an orange had rolled away down the hall. 

"What is _wrong_ with you?" he asked.

Dean scrambled to his feet and staggered to their hotel suite door. "I win!" he announced as he swiped the key card.

"I hate you so much," Sam said, staring at the hallway ceiling and wondering if he couldn't just sleep there for the night. His back would regret it come morning, but standing up just seemed like too much work.

"You made me run up a dozen flights of stairs for no damn reason. You deserve it."

"Eleven," Sam corrected. "And you only ran up the last nine. And I didn't make you do anything. I just pointed out you're getting old."

Sam felt like _he_ was getting old. It was only two a.m. and he was exhausted. He reluctantly got to his feet and grabbed the fruit basket and his flip-flops which had also gone flying. He pushed his way past Dean in the doorway and dumped the basket in the nearest chair.

"Dibs on the shower," they both said and then argued over who had said it first. 

Sam was confident that it was his by rights so he ignored Dean and went to the bathroom, discarding his flip-flops as he went. His hat and shirt and keys and wallet all trailed behind him, along with a fine dusting of sand. Typically this would distract Dean and slow him down, so he was taken by surprise when Dean slipped by him while he was taking off his swim trunks and ducked into the shower first. 

"Hey!" 

"I have sand _everywhere_ ," Dean whined.

"You think I don't?"

It was a big square shower with a clear glass door, which meant Sam was getting an eyeful regardless so it wasn't like there was any decorum to maintain. He opened the door and stepped in as well.

Rather than protest, Dean stepped aside and let Sam rinse himself off while Dean lathered up. 

"We should have showered properly right after the beach. I feel gross."

"Too many stairs," Dean said.

"They need to ventilate those stairs," Sam said. "I'm sweaty _and_ sandy now."

Dean nudged Sam away from the stream of water and handed him the soap. Dean grabbed the shampoo and a moment later grumbled, "Oh, my god, I've still got sand in my _hair_. I swear I rinsed my hair out at the shower at the beach."

"I think it was the hats," Sam said. "They trapped sand in all the seams."

"Ugh. Here." With only that much warning, Dean's fingers were in Sam's hair, smearing shampoo through it and massaging his scalp. If Sam weren't so exhausted it would have been really hot. In fact, Sam's body seemed to have forgotten how exhausted it should have been. Sam sometimes had difficulty performing with too much alcohol in his system, which was really the only reason he'd thought it was safe to get into the shower with Dean. This was unexpected. It wasn't really a full hard-on, but he could definitely feel himself thickening a bit. He did a quick mental chant, ticking off a list of the most boner-killing thoughts that he could think. Wendigos and ghouls and clowns and what Mom would think if she knew her youngest was constantly getting the hots for his older brother.

"Turn around," Sam said. "I'll do you."

Dean obliged, revealing a beautiful backside view. Before getting the shampoo, Sam traced his fingers over a couple of oddly-shaped red spots in the middle of Dean's back. Dean hissed. 

"Oh, you got burned a little here. You missed a couple of spots with the sunscreen."

Sam felt guilty. That should have been his job and he'd flaked out on Dean and let him burn instead. He had the completely insane impulse to lean down and kiss the damaged skin, but Dean would never let him hear the end of it, so he restrained himself.

Back to the plan, he shampooed Dean's hair, carefully working out the salt and grit from their day at the beach. Dean stretched and moaned and Sam had to count werewolf clowns until he got himself back under control.

Sam rinsed himself off and was preparing to retreat to the modesty of a towel, when he caught a glimpse of Dean's erection. _Dean_ had an erection. It wasn't dramatically different in size or shape than his own when fully aroused, but it stood up against his belly, leaning ever so slightly to Dean's left. He could imagine it was pointing at his tattoo. The head was sort of poking out of the foreskin. All he could think was, _Does Little Dean want to come out to play?_  He must have stared for two or three full seconds before he tore his eyes away and looked up at Dean's face.

"This is probably all the rum talking," Dean said, "but you have amazing hands."

"Oh!"

That was it. Sam's wildest dream appeared to be coming true and all he could think to say was _Oh_. It didn't help that Dean had just reminded him that neither of them was really sober enough to be consenting to anything, let alone a life-altering experience like, well, incest. He didn't dare follow through on his impulses, but, well, maybe just one kiss wouldn't hurt.

He leaned in and Dean tilted his head up and Sam licked his lips and Dean bolted.

Dean was amazingly fast at times. Sam just stood there blinking at the shower tiles. He sighed and turned off the water.

By the time he toweled off and exited the bathroom, Dean was fluffing his pillow on the couch.

"Dean…"

"Turn the lights out, wouldya, Sam?"

"So, we're just not talking about this?"

"Good night, Sam."

"Good night, Dean." 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never once mention the song in the story, but I kept getting [Stress by Jim's Big Ego](https://open.spotify.com/track/0OZosC3o4fJ4RqezLSjGS8) stuck in my head as I wrote this. I feel like Sam and Dean can't stay out of trouble because they don't know how to take a vacation. Yes, we see them kicking back and relaxing at times, but never for very long. An hour or two here and there and they're itching to find the next case.
> 
> Relevant section of the song:
>
>> But what I think I'd really love is to get out by myself  
> On a little tiny island  
> In the middle of the ocean  
> With just me and a book and a cellular phone  
> And a personal computer in case something came up  
> And I'd eat and I'd drink  
> And I'd run and I'd sleep  
> And I wouldn't do nothing except swim all day  
> Except you know, my beeper doesn't work underwater  
> Where are the sharks!?  
> Where are the sharks!?  
> Where are the sharks!?  
> And there's this kind of anemone that sticks in your foot  
> And the poison goes up to your brain and you die  
> And sand fleas!  
> Sand fleas!? Yuck!  
> But actually I think it would be really relaxing  
> Just me by myself in the middle of the ocean  
> And that's what I'd really love to do more than anything else  
> Except I'd probably hate it  
> 


	7. A Freaking Man-Eating Dinosaur

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam tossed and turned without any expectation of sleep. 

He now had a glimmer of hope and that made it worse somehow. A harmless fantasy was one thing—everyone probably had a kinky thought or two you would never want anyone else to know about, that you'd never in a million years act on—but he and Dean had actually, almost… at least it had seemed like… but what if Dean's erection had nothing to do with Sam?

Sometimes a dick just had a mind of its own. Sometimes a shower just felt good. Alcohol tended to put a damper on Sam's extracurricular activities, but, based on his history of bar hookups, that had never been a problem for Dean. They'd been drunk and not thinking clearly and Dean's body went on autopilot and then Sam had gone and tried to kiss him like a perv.

For just a moment, Sam could have sworn that Dean was going to _let_ him kiss him. Only he'd been wrong. Dean had shut him down. 

Sam had taken Dean's physical arousal as a sign of interest. Yet they'd already established that Dean was a horndog whose "type" ran the gamut from male to female, barely legal to cougar, human to angel to demon to vampire. Just because Sam could trigger a reflex didn't mean it was something Dean wanted.

Hell, Sam wasn't sure it was even what _he_ wanted. As a fantasy, hell yes. Absolutely. He couldn't imagine anything better. But as a _real_ option? He had fantasized about a lover who wasn't quite _Dean_. A demon or a shapeshifter or a nameless pornstar who just happened to look really familiar. He'd never seriously fantasized about trying to seduce his actual brother. Not until he'd lost his mind and tried it for real. 

And failed.

Sam finally gave up on sleep. He sat up and blinked into the darkness. There was a digital clock by the TV but it was too dim to read. Not that it mattered. Regardless of how many hours left until dawn, Sam wasn't going to spend any of them in slumber. 

He got up and got dressed as quietly as he could and slipped out. The stairs were as muggy as ever and he regretted not having packed more lightweight clothing. He just couldn't bring himself to wear his ridiculous tourist gear, so he'd put on jeans and grabbed a long-sleeved shirt out of habit. 

The physical activity of walking down the stairs cleared his head a little. Was he still drunk? He didn't feel drunk, just tired and muddled from lack of sleep. But didn't drunks always kid themselves that they weren't really drunk? 

What he needed was coffee and maybe a little protein. He'd left the hotel room with no clear idea of where he was going, but by the time he hit the sidewalk, he knew he was headed to that diner they'd eaten at before. It was almost a homing instinct. There was a certain sameness to the American diner and that archetype was essentially Sam Winchester's kitchen as much as the typical roadside motel was his bedroom.

Sam Winchester was tall and athletic and experienced in combat, both bare-knuckle and improvised-weapon. Yet as he walked down the street in the wee hours of the morning in only jeans and a shirt, he regretted that he was not armed. The heat and humidity, even after dark, discouraged layers, which, in turn, made carrying a gun impractical. He hadn't expected to need one. He probably didn't truly _need_ one. But he sort of wished he'd had one now as the general seediness of the neighborhood sunk in.

Since early childhood, Sam had noticed how different people could live in utterly different worlds within the same space and time. Most people went about their daily routine completely oblivious to the reality of werewolves and ghosts and angels in their midst and those otherworldly creatures often went about _their_ business with little thought to mortal concerns. Yet it wasn't just the mundane-paranormal divide where this occurred. Humans did it all the time.

There were the locals, going about their routine of working and buying groceries, to whom tourists were just migratory birds, loud and garish and often in the way, but mostly harmless and sometimes amusing in their own right. And there were the tourists, enjoying their vacations and sightseeing, to whom the locals were no more than facilitators, waiters and desk clerks and cab drivers, invisible until needed. But at that hour, both of those worlds had gone to bed, revealing the doubly-invisible realm of the desperate and destitute. What, in sunshine, had been a lovely shopping district, was now the kind of place where "nice people" didn't linger. Inviting colorful storefronts were now shuttered in gray metal and graffiti. What looked like piles of dirty clothes in the shadows occasionally shifted and coughed. Sam had to step into the street to avoid a sleeping bag that blocked the sidewalk and before reaching the diner he had declined three separate offers of "a good time" somewhat unclear on whether the offer was sex or drugs or both.

The diner was closed. It felt like a mini-betrayal. He had assumed it was an all-night diner, similar to so many he'd known before, but the sign on the door indicated it wouldn't open until six. Sam checked his phone and determined that meant he had nearly three hours to kill. With a sigh of defeat, he turned back around and headed home.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

_So, I see you came,_  
_Secret Squirrel._  
_'s a shame_  
_you will have to die._  
_mwa ha ha ha_  


Sam fumbled for the phone and grunted a groggy "Hello?" without even really registering that Dean was the caller and before remembering why that might be a bad thing.

"Where are you?" Dean asked.

"The car." Sam took a moment to even process the question, let alone the correct answer. "The parking garage," he added, staring blearily at the _Hotel Guests ONLY! All others will be towed!_ sign on the concrete pillar in front of him.

"What are you wearing?"

Sam ran his hand over his sweaty cotton shirt. His brain couldn't process that question at all. "Whu?"

"Do I need to bring down your tie and badge and crap or are you ready to go?" 

"Ready for...?"

"Sophie. Interview. Nevermind. I just found your badge, so obviously you are not ready. I'll be right down with your stuff."

"K."

Sam hung up the phone and blinked rapidly trying to clear his vision if not his head. The clock on the phone told him how long he'd been out. He hadn't intended to sleep, just sit down in his spot in the passenger seat and maybe listen to music on his phone until the diner opened for breakfast. Yet even though he'd been unable to sleep in a perfectly comfortable bed, he had somehow dozed off for nearly six straight hours. 

Dean had sounded grumpy, but then Dean always sounded grumpy when he first woke up. The fact that he was functional at all at nine in the morning following a night of too much rum was a minor miracle.

Sam had nearly nodded off again when Dean tossed his clothes and badge onto his lap and slammed the car door. Without a word, Dean drove them to the diner for breakfast. 

Sam changed into his tie and button-down shirt in the bathroom and returned to the table just as the waitress was topping up Dean's coffee.

"So," Sam said, trying to keep his voice even. "About last night…"

"Apology accepted," Dean said, without even looking up at him. "Say no more."

"Dean…" It wasn't that Sam didn't think he kind of _did_ owe Dean an apology, but his brother jumping the gun still rankled.

"You know what," Dean interrupted. "I don't say this often, but I'm going to be the bigger man here and admit that you were right."

"I was right?"

"We drink _way_ too much. It's time for a cleanse. No ouzo, no daiquiris, no piña coladas. We need to wrap this case up already, which means clear heads."

"So, you're actually admitting that you had too many daiquiris last night?"

"Hell, I barely even remember last night."

 _Liar_. Sam wasn't going to call him on it though. It was just within the bounds of theoretical possibility that Dean had actually blocked out what had happened the night before, but Sam very much doubted it. He'd seen Dean knock back shots of straight whiskey without it affecting his memory, but if Dean wanted to pretend otherwise, Sam was willing to play along.

They ate breakfast with minimal conversation. Dean flirted with the waitress and provided a running commentary on the food, none of which Sam bothered to respond to. The sausage was "awesome". The eggs needed "more salt". The corned beef hash—which as far as Sam could tell tasted _exactly_ like the kind you got from a can—was "on point today". The bacon was "bacon!" And the toast was somehow an abomination unto Chuck—not that Dean wasn't shoving it into his face with everything else—because toast was "lazy" and an inadequate substitute for biscuits which the restaurant did not serve.

If they had not already had this argument twenty-seven times before, Sam might have pointed out that Dean rarely ordered biscuits and often got toast even when biscuits were on the menu, but he had finally worked out that it was rarely about the biscuits, it was what the _existence_ of biscuits _meant_. Namely, a kitchen that produced homemade biscuits could just as easily produce homemade pie crust. The presence or absence of biscuits on the breakfast menu was thus a subtle preview of Dean's later dessert options.

"What self-respecting Southern restaurant doesn't make biscuits?" Dean muttered. "Naw, don't say it. I know," he added after a moment's silence as if Sam had tried to argue the point when he hadn't said a word. "Florida isn't _in_ the South. It's _south_ of the South. _Not_ an excuse."

Sam's only real input was to do the math and work out that the large orange juice was more expensive per ounce than the small orange juice and, while he could imagine the "100% Fresh Florida Orange Juice! (Guaranteed!)" tasted better than a carton from the grocery store, he had trouble wrapping his mind around the prices. Dean renamed the sizes "small" and "extra small".   
   
Dean seemed focused on being absolutely normal and Sam tried to accept that and think about the case, mentally preparing himself for their interview, but his thoughts just looped in circles, going over all the angles they'd already tried.

Dean surprised him by driving them to the police station instead of Sophie's. It would've been nice if Dean kept him in the loop regarding his plans. 

"I _did_ tell you that I wanted to stop by the station first," Dean insisted when Sam protested. "You just don't listen!"

"I listen! When? When did you tell me?"

"At breakfast! Like twenty minutes ago! You were too busy sulking over your eggs."

Sam deflated. It was probably true. "I'm sorry. I…"

"Let it go," Dean said, walking away and into the police station.

It was another colossal waste of time. The police continued to maintain that the first two deaths were natural causes and the second two deaths were coincidences. Colby and Johnson were investigating a gang angle on the shooting death and claimed they had a suspect in custody, but Johnson hedged enough that Dean finally got them to admit their suspect was facing unrelated charges and they had no evidence against him other than a hunch. Rivera and Richards seemed to have already set the dismemberment case aside and were focusing most of their attention on a brutal domestic killing across town. (Shark attack wasn't even on their radar, let alone a cursed cinema.)

"Is it just me or are they not even trying?" Dean asked as they left.

"I don't know. Colby and Johnson seemed to be trying a little _too_ hard."

Dean grunted, but nodded. "That's what you get when it's about _closing_ cases instead of _solving_ cases. Also, doesn't help that they're ruling out the movie thing. Most people can't recognize a paranormal explanation even if it's right in front of them."

"So, Sophie now?"

Sophie's place was a long drive through city traffic far from the beach. If it hadn't been for the occasional citrus tree or palm, it would have looked like the suburban sprawl of any other state in the nation as the tourist attractions and gift shops gave way to retail chains and strip malls. 

Dean turned down a residential street of perfectly manicured lawns and a few seemingly unironic plastic flamingos. But as the road continued, the lawn ornaments became tricycles and lawn chairs and the occasional car up on blocks and chain link fences did double-duty as clotheslines.

Dean turned again and Sam was mildly surprised to find them on a gravel road lined with cattail-filled ditches. They pulled up into a gravel drive next to a small cinder-block house painted a sickly-pale green, the same industrial shade as half of Sam's elementary schools. There were a couple of junker cars already parked in front of the garage and a peek through the cracked window revealed two more parked inside. The residents presumably entered through the attached garage, but the only door accessible to Sam and Dean was inside a chain-link fence which separated the drive from the front lawn. They had to beat back the weeds to even get the gate to open.  

There was a walkway to the front door made of paving stones, half-hidden in the grass. Sam ducked under a tree branch and instantly felt the faint tug in his hair that let him know he hadn't ducked far enough. He was just reaching back when Dean's warning cry made him flinch and the next thing he knew he was flinging a spider the size of a Buick into the bushes.

He added his own voice to a nice duet of "Aaaaahhhhh!" and he knew it wasn't manly at all, but, holy crap, that thing had been _in his hair_.

He shuddered and brushed his hand through his hair, pulling away more webbing, triggering yet another shudder.

"It's okay, man. It's okay." Dean sounded as if he were reassuring himself as much as Sam. "It's gone. You're okay."

"It was in my hair," Sam said. He felt he needed to make that point clear. 

If he ever saw Chuck again, it was on the list of things they were going to discuss, because that right there was totally unnecessary. Spiders, in a general sort of sense, he could see the purpose of, but giant Buick spiders that loitered in trees right outside people's front doors? No. So much no.

There was a general stirring inside the house. A curtain twitched and there were muffled female voices. So much for making a professional first impression.

Dean huffed and rang the doorbell.

The door flew open revealing an Asian woman in an oversize T-shirt that hung down to the middle of her bare thighs. It wasn't that the T-shirt was so big, but she was very tiny. And angry.

"We are a Satanic lesbian cult," she announced. "We eat babies. We have abortions for fun. We ply good Christian boys with alcohol and turn them into gay Democratic Socialists. Take. Us. Off. Your. List."

The door slammed in their faces.

"Satanic lesbian cult?" Sam repeated, feeling more than a little confused.

Dean sighed and waved at his tie. "They think we're door-to-door missionaries."

 _Ah._ They both got out their badges and Dean rang the doorbell again.

"I swear if you don't go away I am calling the…! Oh! Uh! There's is no alcohol at all on these premises, officer! None!"

"We have an appointment with Sophia Lopez," Dean said.

"Oh. Okay. Uh. Who?"

"Sophia Lopez. She lives here."

"Do you mean Gabriela?"

"They mean Sophie," another voice said from out of sight.

The woman in the doorway blinked. "The white girl?"

Sam shrugged. It hadn't occurred to him to ask anyone about that detail.

"The Sophie who used to work at The Festival movie theater," Dean said.

The woman in the doorway turned and asked the unseen voice, "Why is the white girl named Lopez?"

"I ain't her mother. How should I know?"

"Ugh. Hang on." The woman disappeared into a back room leaving Sam and Dean standing awkwardly on the front step.

The unseen voice called out, "You want like coffee or something?"

They poked their heads inside. It was a decently sized room, but a fold-out sleeper-sofa was taking up most of the space, a pile of pillows and untidied blankets shoved to one side.

There were actually two women in the living room. One sat at a small table, hovering over a laptop, an energy drink at her side, her sunken eyes and pale face suggesting she hadn't seen either sunlight or sleep recently. She didn't even glance up. 

The other woman was lounging sideways on an overstuffed chair, her long dark legs swinging slightly as she fiddled with her phone. "I'm pretty sure we have coffee," she said, without a great deal of conviction. "I don't think we have milk though. Maybe some of that powdered creamer. Probably coffee. We definitely have water."

Dean cleared his throat. "As tempting as that sounds, I think we'll pass. I'm Agent Allman. This is Agent Oakley. You are?"

She looked up, suddenly more attentive to the conversation. " _Not_ involved with the theater _at all_."

"Yeah, got that," Dean said. "Just trying to be friendly."

In the distance, they could hear an argument building. The words faded in and out and it wasn't always clear who was speaking. "I don't know who they… why would you make an appointment with them if you don't even know… not me… blame Meghan!… are they… badges!… like totally scary… although the tall one is kind of hot…"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"I'm Nina," the young woman with the legs finally said. "That's Ashley over there, but don't bother trying to talk to her. She thinks you can procrastinate for an entire year and then write your whole thesis in four days. She's the reason I'm not sure if there's any coffee left. You met Vivian. She'll have Sophie dragged out here in a minute. Gabriela works the night shift so try to keep the volume down."

Sophie and Vivian entered on cue. 

"How many of you live here?" Sam asked.

"Eight."

"Nine."

"Seven."

"Eight."

There followed a chorus of names as everyone counted on their fingers.

"Jada… Ashley… Meghan… other Ashley… Gabriela… Meghan… Sophie… Vivian… Jada… she already _said_ Jada… Nina… Did we get Gabriela yet?… both Ashlies?… both Meghans?… Wait, there are two Meghans? How long have there been two Meghans?… There have _always_ been two Meghans… Start over… Jada, Vivian, Gabriela, Sophie, Nina, White Ashley, Black Ashley, White Meghan, Extra-White Meghan. Okay, so that's nine."

The pile of blankets on the hide-a-bed rose up and screamed, "For fuck's sake! There's only one Meghan! Are you people stupid?!"

White Ashley took a swig of Red Bull and said, "Split the difference and call it eight-and-a-half."

Nina shot her a mildly concerned look. "With quality reasoning like that, this is going to be the best thesis ever. Can't wait to read it."

"Why don't we go outside?" Sophie suggested.

Sam and Dean agreed and followed her out, each offering their apologies to Gabriela as they went.

Sam gave the trees a wide berth and eyed the tall weeds suspiciously as well. He was thus several paces behind them as Sophie and Dean walked out of the gate and onto the gravel. Dean was already pulling a gun that Sam didn't even know he'd had on him before Sam had a clue that anything was wrong. 

"The hell, dude?!" Sophie yelped. "What is wrong with you?!"

"It's a gator!" 

Indeed a large alligator was lurking at the edge of the cattails in the drainage ditch right next to the road. Sam's heart was already racing, but Sophie seemed completely unfazed.

"And?"

"It's a gator!" Dean repeated, weapon still targeting it.

"Right. So maybe _don't_ piss it off. Also, I think that's illegal even for a fed."

"But it's a _gator_." Dean had lost a little of his intensity in the face of Sophie's continued indifference, but he kept his gun aimed at the animal.

"Dean, I think she has a point. A bullet from a handgun would just make it angry."

"Okay, fine." Dean didn't sound like he thought the situation was fine at all. "What _do_ you people do when there's an alligator loose in your front yard?"

Sophie shrugged. "If it gets in your pool or something you can call animal control. They'll come fish it out and then go put it in a pond or ditch where it belongs."

"Okay. Okay, so. So you go ahead and call animal control and…"

"It's already _in_ a ditch," Sophie pointed out patiently. "It's not like they're going to come out and move it to a _different_ ditch just because you ask them to."

"What's to stop it from crawling out of the ditch?" Sam asked, desperately hoping Sophie was about to explain how Florida ditches were designed to efficiently prevent alligator escapes.

Sophie shrugged. "Laziness? They mostly just don't."

"It's a freaking man-eating dinosaur," Dean said, "and the only thing keeping us out of its jaws is that it's _mostly_ too lazy to crawl out of a ditch? And you're okay with that?"

"They don't really eat people. Small dogs sometimes. Every now and then you'll hear a story on the news about one getting a kid, but most of the time…"

_"I would like to point out that kids are technically people!!"_

"Maybe," Sam interrupted before Dean could have a full-blown stroke, "we could conduct this interview in the car."

"The _black_ car?" Sophie asked. "You guys really aren't from around here."

"There's air conditioning," Sam reassured her. "It's okay."

They all got in the car and Dean turned it on to get the AC going. "Can we take you out for coffee or a sandwich?" Dean offered.

"No, I'm good," Sophie said. She looked uncomfortable in the backseat or, more to the point, looked more uncomfortable inside a car with Sam and Dean than she had standing by the side of the road a dozen feet from an alligator. 

"You're armed?" he whispered at Dean. The gun had magically disappeared back to wherever Dean kept it, but Sophie wasn't likely to forget it.

"You're not?" Dean whispered back.

Sam huffed and cleared his throat and gave his brother a pointed look. So Dean huffed and cleared his throat _and_ made up some FBI BS about procedural code 12 regarding field agents and their firearms.

Sophie interrupted to ask, "Just so we're clear, the FBI would be paying for the sandwich?"

Dean blinked at her for a moment before answering. "Absolutely."

"Okay. Screw it. My mother's advice hasn't really worked out that well so far. Let's go for a ride with strangers in exchange for candy. Buy me a sandwich."  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's ringtone for Dean quoted above is "Secret Squirrel" by Marcy Playground.


	8. Everybody's Got A Story

_"Okay. Screw it. My mother's advice hasn't really worked out that well so far. Let's go for a ride with strangers in exchange for candy. Buy me a sandwich."_

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Dean put the car in reverse and backed out onto the gravel road. "Hey, at least it's not a van, right?"

"I don't think that's as reassuring as you think," Sam said. "Although, we _should_ get a van. It would make surveillance work easier."

"Bite your tongue."   

"Long cases where we're on the road, we could sleep in the back."

"Blasphemer."

It was a fun challenge to tease Dean while staying in character and by the time Dean pulled into the Biggerson's parking lot, they had, between them, invented at least seven new FBI procedural codes, only one of which—Dean's insistence that senior agent picks the music—was even stupid.

Sam squeezed into the same side of the booth as Dean opposite Sophie. The hostess deftly swept up the fourth set of silverware and extra placemat off of the Formica table. They were the paper placemats with kid's games and puzzles. If it weren't for Sophie, Dean would have almost certainly asked the waitress for crayons, teasing that they were for Sam, but in truth, Dean could never resist a maze.

"I was going to start by asking if you'd seen anything weird at the theater," Dean began, "but I get the feeling you don't know from weird."

Sam huffed. Insulting their witness wasn't going to get them anywhere. "Sorry. They don't have alligators where we're from."

"They were cool _at_ the alligator farm," Dean said. "But just loitering by the side of the road? Not so much."

"So that's a pretty small house for so many people," Sam said, hoping to get Dean off the subject of the damned alligator.

"Small crowded house, run-down neighborhood. Yeah, I'd say being poor kind of sucks all around. You guys hiring?" she asked the waitress without a pause as the woman approached the table.

"No. Sorry." The waitress didn't look sorry, so much as embarrassed by Sophie's blatant desperation. "Are you ready to order or do you need a few minutes?"

They placed their orders. Sophie ordered a burger, but Dean surprised him by saying "same" after Sam ordered his Autumn Harvest salad. Dean maybe wasn't over the whole turducken incident with Biggerson's. Sam personally still got queasy when he thought of the way that thing had oozed.

"First, I gotta ask," Dean said. "This has nothing to do with anything, but it's gonna bug me if I don't ask. How many Meghans are there?"

Sophie looked at her placemat with a contemplative expression. "Well, there's _Meghan_ that we pay the rent to. Her mom owns the house. She's super sweet and always very professional. She works in her mom's real estate office so, y'know, heels, skirt, makeup, the whole bit. And, and… perky. Like _so_ perky."

"I think I talked to her on the phone," Dean said. "Sounds like a Disney tour guide?"

Sophie nodded. "And then there's _scary Meghan_ who only wears pajamas and snarls a lot and listens to death metal. She's really pale and doesn't talk much. I'd honestly never thought about whether I'd ever seen them in the same place at the same time."

Dean flicked a look at Sam and said, "Sometimes it's the clean-cut ones you gotta watch out for." He settled into his charm-the-witness smile. "So, what's your story?"

Sophie shrugged yet again. "Just your average loser, kinda boring, no story."

"Everybody's got a story," Dean insisted.

"Okay. Fine. My story. I was born here in Florida. Better neighborhood. Not rich or anything, just one of those rows-of-ticky-tacky kinds of neighborhoods. My parents had the perfect marriage until one day they didn't and my mother was suddenly living in South Carolina with a guy I'd never met before that and have actually only met at this point about four times, but still it's apparently rude not to call him 'Dad' when we're stuck at the same table at Aunt Jean's wedding and, okay, I might have gotten a little distracted there, because none of that was the point. Sorry."

Sophie took a deep breath. 

The waitress brought their drinks, colas all around, each decorated with a lemon wedge on the rim. Sam wouldn't have been surprised if they were instead served with orange wedges and then he wondered idly what that would taste like. Sophie squeezed her lemon into her cola and then dropped the remains into the glass, poking it below the ice with her straw. Dean also squeezed his lemon into his glass, but set the depleted wedge on a napkin when he was done. Anticipating the "that's unhygienic" argument, Sam copied Sophie and dropped his used lemon wedge into his drink. Dean held his tongue, but gave Sam a satisfying _I am so disappointed in you_ eyeroll.  
   
Sophie took a long sip on her straw before continuing.

"Okay. My story. I started working at The Festival three years ago. It was my first job. _Only_ job. It was a great after-school gig. My main thing was cleaning in between showings so there was a lot of downtime between shifts. Tanya was cool and let me do my homework in her office."

"Tanya?"

"She was the manager before Mr. Price. After I graduated high school, Tanya gave me more hours so it became a full-time job. But then Price took over and…" Sophie rolled her eyes and took another sip of her cola.

"Price made a lot of changes?" Sam asked.

"Not at first, it was just this steady decline. I mean, Tanya, who had been a perfectly good manager, basically got demoted just because the owner's grandkid decided to play boss and he's pretty crap at it. Like, I don't want to offend you or anything," she said, giving them both a fearful, yet defiant look, "but you don't know what it's like to be good at a job and know that you could still be demoted and replaced with an incompetent white guy at any moment. So obviously she quit not long after. Which sucked for everyone because she was kind of like a mom—y'know, one who _actually_ cared—like you did _not_ want to piss her off, but still you knew she was always looking out for everybody. She's working for her sister's catering business now. They're not hiring either. I asked." 

Dean gave Sam a plaintive side-eye as if _Sam_ could get Sophie off the topic of her mom-issues and her employment status.

"Other people quit for different reasons but one way or another mostly his fault. He was just so bossy, y'know. I mean, I get that he's the boss, but you can be a boss without being bossy. He was even pissing off the customers because he was kicking people out between the movies and the free double-features were like our _only_ draw then."

"Free double-features?"

"Okay, so The Festival is a single-screen theater, right? You'll never do the same business as a multiplex. But Tanya used to run two different movies. _Technically_ , it wasn't a double feature. Tanya said we'd get in trouble with the licensing if we billed it that way. But everyone knew we didn't go out of our way to kick people out between screenings, so you could buy a ticket to _Fury Road_ and stick around for _Jurassic World_ or vice versa. She was pretty good at matching up themes. Two comedies or two chick flicks or two horror shows."

"Cool," Dean said. His finger moved idly over his placemat and Sam wondered whether it was a coincidence or whether Dean was trying to solve the maze.

"Yeah, but Price put a stop to it. Insisted all the patrons leave between showings and buy a new ticket to get back in. Except they didn't. They'd just leave. With that and him just messing up the schedule too many times, he set these dumb showtimes with huge gaps between movies, mainly just so he never had to bother redoing the schedule, but he tried to justify it by saying it was to clear out the house between movies. That meant there were fewer showings overall so he was making less money so he cut staff to make up for that. So those of us that were left were overworked—" 

The waitress arrived with their food. Dean looked like he already regretted ordering a salad and poked at it vaguely with his fork.

"What is that?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"It's a cranberry," Sam said.

"What is that doing in my salad?"

"It's good, just eat it."

Dean flipped over several spinach leaves before accepting defeat. "There isn't even any chicken in this, is there?"

Dean had obviously stopped reading the menu description after _candied bacon bits_ ".

"Things were going downhill," Sophie continued, "and Mr. Price got the bright idea to serve those crappy daiquiris which is _not_ doing Krissy Anne's health any good, because you _know_ half that rum is going out the door in her purse at the end of the night. Then the projector broke and instead of fixing it, he dragged out his dad's collection of crappy old movies. And then Henry Kagan died, as if we weren't already jinxed enough, and then it got super freaky and I could _not_ deal anymore."

Sam didn't know which question to ask first after all of that, but Dean stepped in with the least-relevant follow-up possible. "You think the daiquiris are crappy?"

She nodded. "We got a lot of complaints that first week before Krissy Anne got the hang of it."

"Let's talk about Henry Kagan's death," Sam said.

"How hard is it to mix a daiquiri though?" Dean asked. 

"They use the exact same syrup as the snow cone guys at the beach. You've seen them, right? The giant industrial-size pump bottles of goo. It's gross."

"Yeah, but enough rum and who cares?"

"Which is the key issue," she said.

"Henry Kagan," Sam interrupted because he really didn't think the daiquiris were the key issue at all. "He was the first death. He was someone you knew by name?"

"Yeah. I didn't know the others, but he was a regular. Came in every week like clockwork. One root beer, one medium popcorn, one box of Raisinets, in his seat exactly five minutes before showtime. God help Carl if he didn't start the picture on the dot. Watched the movie and filled out his comment card. _Always_ a complaint. You'd think he'd stop coming if he hated the place so much, but The Festival is kind of weird like that. You forget how lame it is when you're not there. There's like instant nostalgia and you think it'll be fun to go back. Kagan said he used to work in the industry before he retired, so he considered himself an expert. But he wasn't like a director or a producer or anything cool. He was just a lawyer or something who worked for one of the studios. Like who cares?"

Her monologue continued without pause as she poured an obscene amount of ketchup onto her french fries. 

"I never understood what he was so upset about. He was a little… vague sometimes. He didn't always make sense. I wasn't even surprised that he croaked in the middle of a matinee. He always seemed on the verge of busting a blood vessel, you know. When that woman died a week later, that was like crazy bad luck, I figured. But that third guy? All covered in blood? That was it for me. I even texted myself a list of all the reasons I quit so I wouldn't ever go back."

"What was that about the projector breaking?" Dean asked. "What did that have to do with the switch to old movies?"

"It's a completely different system. Films aren't actually _film_. Movies are just computer files. If it was a big release, the distributor wouldn't even give us the password until just before showtime. And then I think the file sort of self-destructs at the end of the licensed run. I don't really know the details, but I know Carl tried to hack copies sometimes and it never worked. Anyway, I guess the digital projectors are pretty expensive. Instead of fixing it when it broke, he had Carl drag out one of the old film projectors from storage. After that, no more new releases."

Sam glanced at Dean to see if they were thinking the same thing.

"How long before Henry Kagan's death did The Festival switch to this old projector?" Sam asked.

Sophie chewed on her burger, while she considered. "A few months? Our last new release was _Alice Through the Looking Glass_ which I really _wanted_ to like—because y'know Alan Rickman as a blue caterpillar, right?—but I've just had very conflicted feelings about Johnny Depp lately."

Dean shrugged and he must have been really hungry because he ate a forkful of salad, before shooting Sam another betrayed look. The timing wasn't perfect, but it didn't rule it out either. Cursed objects didn't always kill instantly.

"Carl says 'hey' by the way," Sam said, mainly to stall while he decided the next angle of questioning.

"Really?"

"And Krissy Anne said she'd be happy to have you back," Dean added. He began picking all the cranberries to the side and appeared to only be eating the bacon bits.

Sophie pulled out her cell phone, flipped through a few screens, and then put it back down. "Nope. Nope. Nope."

"What's with the phone?" Dean asked.

"Told you. I texted myself so I wouldn't forget." She picked the phone back up, flipped through to the note in question, and handed the phone to Dean.

Sam leaned over his shoulder and read along: `[OMG dead people! $ wll never pay > min. No future. Prob illg. KA booze. ALSO DEAD PEOPLE.]`

"Prob illg?" Dean asked.

"Kagan claimed it was illegal to show all those old movies. Like, illegal to even _have_ them. These days you've got passwords and self-destructing files, but back in the day, I guess the film distributors had to physically go around and pick up the old reels. So The Festival shouldn't just have copies of old films lying around. Technically it's stealing."

"Which would explain why Price doesn't advertise his titles," Sam said. "He's trying to stay under the radar of anyone who might shut him down."

"But if Kagan was complaining—" Dean began. He was sorting all the component pieces of his salad into separate piles. Walnuts into one pile. Feta cheese crumbles into another. Apple slices in another. Dried cranberries in the pile on the far side of the plate.

"Just to us though," Sophie said. "Those comment cards never went anywhere. Tanya used to read them. If a customer wrote something nice about you, you got free candy. One guy got fired for swearing at an old lady. Mainly people just leave movie reviews, like that has anything to do with us. Why tell us how many stars you give a film? We didn't make it. But Price? Couldn't care less about the comment cards and we're not a chain, so there's no corporate office reading them."

"The 'KA?' That's Krissy Anne?" Dean asked.

Sophie nodded.

"You really think she has a problem with the booze?"

"Oh, hells yeah. It used to be she was a social drinker. At the end of the shift, she'd talk people into hitting a bar with her. I think even Tanya went out and knocked a few back with her sometimes. But when Price took over, it was the most experienced people who quit first, so in the end, she didn't have anyone over twenty-one to drink with. At first, I thought that would be good for her; she'd have to cut back a little."

"But she didn't cut back?" Sam asked. The subject of excessive alcohol was making him uncomfortable. Twice in a week, he'd gotten drunk enough to put the moves on his own brother. He glanced at Dean, but Dean had gone back to poking at his salad without enthusiasm.

"I can't prove it, but it looked like she'd just taken to drinking alone at home. So when The Festival started selling daiquiris… it only took about a week for her to figure out how to water them down without anyone noticing enough to complain."

"Water them down?" Dean repeated.

Sam felt a tingle of panic. She couldn't possibly be suggesting… He cleared his throat and very diligently avoided looking at Dean. "The daiquiris she gave us tasted pretty strong."

"First impressions. That's the genius of it. She started out making them from Mr. Price's recipe, so a little weak, but still a fair amount of actual rum in them. People complained. I think the cheap syrup was so overpowering that no one could taste the booze. So she got advice from one of her bartender friends and the trick is…" Sophie demonstrated by dipping her straw in her glass. With her finger over one end, she lifted a straw full of cola into the air. "… you drizzle the rum around the top of the glass as close to the rim as you can. That way people _smell_ it and think it must be strong before they even take a sip." She drizzled the cola back into the glass tracing the straw around the lip.

Sam's heart thudded and he risked a glance at Dean.

"Well, Krissy Anne must like us," Dean insisted, his lips twitching out of what now looked like a forced smile, "because the daiquiris she gave us didn't just _smell_ strong."

"And the final step," Sophie said, reloading the straw, "you fill up the straw with rum and stick it in the daiquiri. The customer takes a sip and gets hit with pure rum and thinks 'Yoinks! That's a strong drink!' But trust me, that is literally _all_ the rum she puts in there. Once she realized she could get away with it, she cut out the shot entirely. And one time, I still heard a woman complain that the drink was too strong and insisted she remake it. First impressions."

"But," Dean repeated stubbornly, "Krissy Anne _likes_ us and _our_ drinks were strong."

Sam started to feel slightly dizzy. His paradigm wasn't shifting so much as jitterbugging.

"That's one thing I did enjoy at The Festival after Price took over," Sophie said. "Watching sober people act drunk just because they thought they should be. They giggle. They dance in the lobby. They make out in the back rows. And whenever they do something stupid, they just laugh it off as 'Oops! Too much rum!' But trust me. The only person getting drunk at The Festival is Krissy Anne."

She smiled and, for a paranoid moment, Sam was just sure that she _knew_ , that the _entire world_ knew that Sam Winchester had tried to make out with his brother on the mere pretext of _thinking_ he was drunk.

"But Krissy Anne likes me and…"

Dean was stuck so deep in his groove that Sam thought he would have kept arguing the point all day if his phone hadn't rung, the generic trill of an unknown number. Dean pulled out the phone. "Hello. Yes, this is Agent Allman. What? When? _How?_ What was the cause of death? Fine. We're on our way."

Dean was already pushing Sam out of the booth before he'd even hung up the phone. Sam reluctantly left behind his half-eaten salad.

Dean tossed several twenties at Sophie and said, "That should be enough for the meal and the car fare home. We have to go."

"What?" Sophie asked.

It was Sam he looked at when he answered though. "That was Dr. Bradstreet. There's been another death at The Festival."

"Price said he wouldn't show a matinee where anyone died," Sam said. "What was the cause of death?"

"She wouldn't say. Insisted we come down and see her in person."

Sam offered Sophie an apology for leaving her behind in the Biggerson's, but Dean had given her more than enough money to get home so he wasn't too concerned. 

"So do you need a college degree to be FBI? Or is there like an FBI trade school?" Sophie asked. She did not say, _because it can't be that hard if you guys can do it_ , but it was sort of implied.

"Sorry. We've got to go. Good luck with the job search."

Sam had to pick up his pace to catch up with Dean who'd already headed out to the car.

He folded into the passenger seat and barely had time to close the door before Dean was pulling out of the parking lot.

"Dean, about the…"

"Cursed projector, obviously. I figure Scott Price's ex-wife put the hex on it, but it got put in storage before it took effect. Maybe it was one of those spells that has to build up. Like everything's fine until the hundredth movie or whatever triggers it. Maybe that was her parting shot just before leaving town and she wanted to make sure she had an alibi before the mojo kicked in. Maybe Scott suspected something or maybe it was just a coincidence that they upgraded to a new projector before the curse was activated. Either way, it sits in storage for years until Andy dusts it off and then after a few months of movies it goes pop."

Sam surrendered. They obviously weren't going to talk about the rum, or the lack of rum really, and Sam's behavior after _not_ getting drunk. He didn't see any flaws in Dean's logic and he certainly had no better theory. Case first, messed-up emotional crisis later.

"Without a killer movie as inspiration, you figure the cursed projector was able to zap someone anyway? Magical overload?" Sam asked.

"Don't know. Don't care. After this, we go back to The Festival, douse that baby in holy water. Wrap it up in protective symbols and take it out and burn it. Bury the ashes."

"It's mostly metal isn't it?" Sam asked doubtfully. "Will it burn?"

"Holy oil," Dean said without taking his eyes off the road. "We'll burn it with holy oil."

"I'll see if I can come up with a de-cursing spell too," Sam said, glad to have an action plan. 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

When they arrived at the Medical Examiner's office Dr. Bradstreet was waiting for them in the hallway just outside the door. A younger man in a white coat stood at her side. 

"Agents," she said with a tired smile. "This is Dr. Curtis. This was his shift, but he called me in for… a consultation."

"Festival matinee like the others?" Dean asked. He glanced toward the door to the exam room where Sam knew the body must be, but Dr. Curtis shifted slightly blocking the way.

"Festival matinee," she agreed. "But I wouldn't say it's _like_ anything I've seen before." Dr. Bradstreet glanced over her shoulder at the door.

"What was the cause of death?" Sam asked.

Bradstreet and Curtis exchanged a look. Curtis hesitantly indicated his clipboard. "What I'm putting on the report is Rapid-Onset Idiopathic Cyanotic Edema."

Dr. Bradstreet nodded. "Accurate," she observed dryly. " _Extremely_ rapid onset according to the witnesses."

"Someone saw the victim die this time?" Sam asked.

"She actually died in the ambulance. So we have the EMTs as well as the deceased's friend who was with her when the symptoms first presented."

"What is Rapid-Onset Ida… what did you say?" Dean asked.

"Idiopathic Cyanotic Edema," Bradstreet repeated. "Edema means swelling due to fluid build-up in the tissues. Idiopathic means of unknown origin. Cyanotic means… blue."

"Blue?"

"Blue."

Dr. Bradstreet opened the door and led them inside. A sheet was draped over two gurneys that had been strapped together to form a double-wide table for a shockingly obese body. The sheet was stained a lurid purple in spots where something wet and inky was soaking through. Purple fluid had also slopped over the edge of the gurney and was dripping onto the floor. Dr. Bradstreet pulled back the sheet to reveal the body.

"Fifteen years old. A track star at her high school from what I've been told. We're still awaiting the transfer of her medical files, but her friend estimated that her weight was in the neighborhood of one hundred twenty to one hundred thirty pounds. Up until this afternoon, she presented as a perfectly healthy teenager. And now…"

"Now she's a blueberry," Dean said.

Sam felt ill. She didn't look that much like a blueberry really, but… she didn't look quite human either. Her hair and skin were the same shade of muted blue. Her neck had swollen to become just a slope between her head and shoulders. There was a wound in her neck, where it appeared someone had tried to insert a trach tube. Perhaps the swelling had cut off her breathing. The wound had bled purple and Sam realized with a sinking horror that the true cause of death was probably just that blueberry juice was a shitty substitute for human blood.

" _Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory_, the original Gene Wilder version," Bradstreet said. "I don't think the theater manager thought that one through."

"What else is new?" Dean muttered.

"The police have requested a full tox-screen," Dr. Curtis added, "but I can't think of anything that could have caused this. I've never even _heard_ of something like this happening before, let alone seen it."

"Yeah, well, we think we've got a solid lead, so with any luck, you won't ever hear of another one." Dean offered them a terse nod and walked out.

"Thanks for all your help," Sam said and followed him out.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

They drove back to The Festival in silence. Sam texted Castiel and verified the containment spell he planned to use on the cursed projector, just to make sure it didn't do anything unexpected when Dean destroyed it. It would be their luck if setting it on fire made things worse.

They found a parking spot only a block away and gathered the necessary gear into a bag.

Krissy Anne was at the door turning away patrons who'd arrived for the evening show. "I'm sorry. We're closed. Medical emergency. We're closed. Sorry. I don't know. Some kind of allergic reaction."

She was looking extra haggard or maybe Sam was just primed to look for the slightly unfocused look in her eye. When she spotted them she perked up. "Agents!" To yet another patron, she snapped, "We're closed! Can't you read?!"

She ushered Sam and Dean inside with such enthusiasm that for a moment, he thought she was about to hug them. "Please, can you get Carl back? I don't care if they keep Mr. Price indefinitely. All he ever does is get in the way anyhow. But please, I cannot cope without Carl."

Sam glanced at Dean who seemed similarly confused, but inside they were met by both sets of police detectives who had previously been so sure their cases weren't related. 

"I take it that Carl and Andy are suspects?" Dean asked. 

Detective Richards held out one of the photocopied flyers. "Unlike the others, this showing wasn't advertised in advance. For some reason, the matinee was swapped out at the last minute. A murder like this, clearly premeditated."

"Clearly," his partner Rivera echoed.

"We don't even know what kind of poison was used," piped in the shorter detective whose name Sam had forgotten. _Stilton? Muenster?_ Definitely some kind of cheese.

"South American, most likely," his partner Johnson added. "We'll be talking to our drug informants. I expect we'll have this cracked in no time."

Richards stepped forward, still waving the flyer for emphasis, and effectively blocking the rival detective team from the conversation. "Carl Hunt and Andrew Price were the only two people who knew which film was being shown in advance of the screening," Richards said. "That obviously narrows the suspect list a little."

"Why would Carl have _told_ you that, if he was the killer?" Krissy Anne asked.

"Ma'am, this is a crime scene," Johnson said, reasserting his authority. "We're going to have to ask you to leave."

Krissy Anne threw her hands in the air. "Fine, but can someone let me know if I'm supposed to come to work tomorrow?"

Dean tilted his head. "Well, considering that you're down a manager and a projectionist…" _and a projector_ he seemed to add with his eyes as he glanced at Sam, "… I think it's safe to assume you've got Sunday off." 

"Great." She sounded less than thrilled at the loss of paid hours.

"We're just going to look around," Dean said to the detectives and slipped away.

Instead of following Dean up to the projection room, Sam followed Krissy Anne to the snack bar where she was gathering up her purse. She apparently didn't notice Sam. He wasn't precisely surprised, but was still taken slightly aback at how brazenly she slipped a bottle of rum into her bag even with a lobby full of cops. She turned and nearly ran into him.

"Oh!"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I need to ask you a question about the daiquiris."

Krissy Anne took a step back and tucked her bag under her arm as if that would make it less noticeable.

"It's okay," Sam reassured her. "You're not in any kind of trouble. I just need to know the truth. I need to know whether I can trust my instincts the last few days, for the case. So I need to know _exactly_ how much alcohol I've consumed this week."

She took another step back and bumped into the counter behind her.

"It's okay," he repeated. "It’s just really important. Please."

Her eyes darted everywhere but Sam's face. "I'm not sure… maybe… I don't really measure… about…."

"Exactly two straws?"

She froze.

"Sophie showed us your trick with the straws."

Krissy Anne nodded.

"You didn't give either of us more than usual because you like Dean?"

She shook her head.

"What about the fishbowl?"

"Still just two straws. By volume, it's even weaker than the regular." His disappointment must have registered on his face because she added, "but you probably had a legit sugar high. There's a lot of sugar in all of them."

Sam sighed. "For the record, Sophie's worried about you."

Krissy Anne misunderstood the concern. She glanced over at the detectives who were now openly arguing about which team was in charge of the investigation. "Trust me. Whatever happens, I'm calling in sick next Saturday."

Sam decided to let it go. There'd be time for an intervention later and, with luck, Sam and Dean would be long gone by then. His personal experience with getting clean involved getting chained up in Bobby's basement so it's not like he had any helpful advice to give.

He wished her a good weekend and headed up to the projection room after Dean. He paused first at the end of the counter and grabbed a straw.

Dean was poking at the projector when he walked in. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam and said, "I don't think this cart is part of it, but we should take it too, just to be thorough."

Sam nodded. He took a shaky breath. He needed to get his apology out quickly. He would apologize and Dean would shrug it off and then they could just move on like nothing happened.

"I talked to Krissy Anne about the rum."

"No."

"No?"

"This is not the time for that. We are working here. We are staying focused. No… tangents."

"Okay, fine. Let's just take it out now while the local police are still busy arguing about who's in charge." Sam pulled a sheet out of the bag of stuff they'd brought and laid it out on the floor. "For a more permanent containment, we'd need blood, but just to transport it, Castiel said holy water would work."

Dean watched him without comment, but, as expected, scowled when Sam dipped the straw in a flask of holy water. He copied Sophie's trick to carefully paint a sigil on the sheet in water. It took several strawfuls to complete it and when it was done it was only barely visible, the sheet darkened just slightly where wet.

"That's going to just dry out in the fire," Dean said, his voice taut and gruff.

"Castiel said it didn't matter. Dampness is apparently not the key element in holy water."

"Whatever. Let's go."

They draped the sheet over the projector and carried it down the stairs. It was awkward, but not as heavy as Sam had expected. Dean, on the other hand, muttered, "Heavier than I thought," when he set it down at the bottom of the stairs. They apparently had differing expectations, which was actually pretty typical, Sam thought.

Dean jerked his head toward the back door and Sam nodded. They wheeled the projector towards one of the alley exits and Sam mentally prepared himself for pulling rank on the police officer guarding the door. Except it turned out there was no one guarding the door. There was no handle on the outside. Carl would prop it open with a rock when taking his breaks, likely single-handedly responsible for the stale cigarette smell in that hallway. Since no one could get in that way, it likely didn't occur to the police that they need be concerned about anyone slipping anything _out_ that way.

Sam felt a little weird pushing the projector down the sidewalk to the car, but the Winchesters had developed a pretty solid strategy of acting like they were supposed to be where they were, doing whatever they were doing, and amazingly very few people ever questioned them. Few were likely to even remember that they'd seen two professionally-dressed men pushing a tarped cart if they were questioned about it later.

They'd had to move their bags from the trunk to the back seat to make room for the projector and that's when Sam realized with a twinge that Dean had brought down not just his summer fed suit, but _all_ of their things from the hotel room. It wasn't unusual. If they had to cut-and-run, it was useful to keep their stuff in the car just in case. But… Dean had promised that they were going to stay for a post-case vacation.

As they were loading the projector into the car, Dean announced that the "rabbit food" hadn't counted as lunch and that he was starving. Sam countered that if he'd actually _eaten_ the salad instead of just poking at it like he was afraid it had slugs in it, he might not be so hungry. 

Neither of them wanted to take the time to stop at another restaurant with a cursed object in the trunk of the car, so they stopped at a gas station convenience store for snacks. Dean gassed up the car and sent Sam in for beer, either forgetting their deal or hoping Sam had. Sam bought a bag of ice for their cooler and some beef jerky and candy and bottled water. The cheapest bottled water was two bucks each for the 16-ounce plastic bottles, which was already irksome, but after a moment's hesitation, Sam paid even more for the water in 12-ounce glass bottles. Maybe if it _felt_ like a beer bottle in his hand, Dean wouldn't be so annoyed about it.

He tossed Dean the beef jerky and candy, which kept him distracted while Sam put the water and ice in the cooler. 

Despite the jerky, Dean still hit a fast-food drive-through and Sam relented and acknowledged he could go for a burger himself. They ate in the car while Dean grumbled about traffic and Sam opted to not even ask where they were going. If Dean wanted help navigating, he'd ask.  
   
Not like that was damned likely.  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	9. Should Have Brought Marshmallows

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Somehow—and Sam wasn't at all sure if Dean had looked the place up or if it was just Dean's amazing ability to steer the car where he needed to be—Dean found a campground on the beach south of town. They crossed a bridge to an island that was really a glorified sandbar. It wasn't as remote as they might have liked—only small clumps of trees separated one campsite from the next—but it was right off the gulf and fire pits were allowed so they could hopefully burn the projector without attracting too much attention.

They couldn't have been more than fifty yards from the water and the elevation above sea level was negligible. A mild breeze mitigated the oppressive humidity but only slightly. It seemed to Sam that a moderate gale would wipe the entire campground off the map. A quick check of the weather forecast on his phone reassured him that the inevitable was unlikely to happen today at least.

A cinder block building one sandbar over promised flush toilets and running water. That was the extent of the amenities. Colorful tents were visible through the gaps in the trees. Dean backed into their spot as far as he could, but that still left them visible from the main drive. In the distance, a dog was barking happily and seagulls were squawking less happily and children were screaming in that high-pitched way that might indicate indescribable joy or brutal murder. Sam remained on edge until he could finally hear one of them giggling.

Sam reached into the bag of clothes that he classified as not really clean, but not dirty enough to wash yet and pulled out a T-shirt and jeans. No point getting his fed outfit smoky even if he hoped he wouldn't need it again this trip. He changed in the backseat while Dean set up the logs for the fire. Firewood was one of the more mundane things they kept in the trunk.

"This really would be easier if we had a van," Sam said, feeling a little self-conscious about changing clothes with kids squealing nearby. Aside from the modesty issue, the black car was soaking up the sun like a brick oven. His jeans stuck to his sweaty legs and he finally gave up. He shoved them back in the laundry and changed into his ridiculous seahorse boardshorts instead. "A white panel van. Something that blends in and people don't notice. We could get those magnetic signs and swap them out as needed for whatever our cover is, right? 'Winchester Brothers Plumbing' or 'Winchester Brothers Security'."

"You can scratch the 'brothers' right out of that," Dean said, "because I'm about to disown you."

When he got out of the car, Dean gave him a lingering once-over, from his sweaty hair to his flip-flops, and only then did Sam realize that he'd grabbed the wrong shirt. He was wearing Dean's tourist shirt. But instead of complaining, Dean nodded and said, "Good idea. I'm going to change too and then we can get the fire started. Remind me we need more firewood next time we get the chance."

A chill ran down Sam's body when Dean got back out of the car wearing his starfish shorts and Sam's gator shirt. It was rare enough that Dean wore so little clothing, but it was really the way the shirt _clung_ that got to Sam.

"A little help here," Dean said. Sam was ashamed to realize he'd just been staring while Dean tried to maneuver the projector out of the trunk by himself.

"Right, sorry."

They got it centered on the firewood. As predicted, the holy water had already dried and the sigils were invisible. Castiel was probably right and it probably didn't matter, but Sam only took chances when he didn't have an alternative—which was kind of often, but still. He retraced the sigils in holy oil and recited a few protective charms while he was at it.

Dean sort of ruined the aesthetic when he used random trash for kindling, but Sam didn't argue. Like most things in their life, Dean was in charge of fires.

They needed to keep a close eye on the fire lest it go out before the projector was thoroughly destroyed. He expected it would take awhile, so Sam took a seat on the Impala's trunk and then flinched away when he discovered how hot the black surface had gotten. Dean reached into the backseat and Sam asked, "Hey, grab the towels, would you? The car's too hot to sit on." 

Sam cringed when he heard the sound of glass bottles clinking with ice, braced himself for Dean's reaction to discovering there was no beer. It was dumb of Sam to stick to their deal when the reason for it was moot. Sam had tackled his brother to the bed, licked his neck, begged him to share his bed _all while stone-cold sober_ and when freaking out afterward, he'd blamed it all on rum. He'd felt his brother up in the shower and blamed it on rum. Only, surprise, not so much with the rum. Drinking over-priced bottled water wasn't going to fix any of that.

Dean joined him on the trunk, their towels reducing the heat from searing to merely still too warm, and handed him a bottle of water. He didn't look angry. He looked tired and sad, which was worse.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I should have gotten beer like you asked. There was no reason not to—"

"A promise is a promise," Dean interrupted. "I agreed. I shouldn't have even asked for beer. Just… autopilot, y'know."

"It was a pointless agreement," Sam said. "I was blaming alcohol for…"

Neither of them was ready to finish that sentence, so they just drank their water and watched the fire burn.

It seemed a waste to be burning it in daylight. Flames were always prettier after dark. Then again, the silhouette of their very unconventional fire would be more noticeable after dark. Sam couldn't think of a single good explanation for why they were trying to burn metal if a camper wandered by and asked what the heck they were doing.

Dean chugged his water and then wandered into the brush. He cursed under his breath almost immediately and came back to the car, shooing Sam off the trunk so he could get his work gloves. "Even the damn plants have teeth," he said, showing Sam a scratch on his hand.

Properly armored he went back and cut a couple of fronds off of a palmetto plant. Sam decided to relocate his towel to the ground, upwind of the fire. The car was just too hot.

"Are you allowed to just cut plants down like that? That's the campground's property."

"They're weeds," Dean insisted. "They're everywhere."

One man's weed was another man's native flora, but the damage was already done, so Sam let it go. He stretched out on his towel and enjoyed the view.

Dean fanned the flames with one of the fronds and Sam was unable to stifle a giggle.

"What?"

Sam had no intention of sharing the comical, yet highly inappropriate mental image of slave-boy-Dean. It was a stupid fantasy trope anyway. Wasting a good-looking guy on just standing around with a fan.

Dean tried poking the fire with the frond instead of just fanning it. It caught fire slowly, which seemed to please Dean and he began moving the fire around, fully lighting some of the kindling on the side that hadn't quite caught yet.

"You're just playing with it because you're bored," Sam observed. _Also avoiding_.

Dean gave him half a smile, which was Dean's way of admitting Sam was right without having to admit that he was admitting it. The leaves eventually burned down, leaving behind a naturally-sharp stem with rows of teeth-like thorns along the sides. "Do you think this would kill a vampire?" Dean mused. "It's not _technically_ wooden, but… a plant's a plant, maybe?"

"Feel free to test it next time we're battling a nest of vamps," Sam said.

"Yeah, right." Dean frowned at the fire. "How hot do you think it needs to get before it's de-cursed?"

"I haven't found any lore specifying temperature. Most sources just say 'burn it' or 'destroy it with fire'. I ran across one legend that specified burning the cursed object 'for a night and a day' but that's generally considered overkill. It's possible that all it takes is a symbolic flame. It could already be de-cursed."

Dean shot him an annoyed look. "Well, that's nice and precise."

"I think the main point in this particular instance is just making sure that it can never be used again. So, mission accomplished?"

Dean nodded as if he agreed, but then immediately contradicted that. "So, we don't have enough firewood to keep it going for a night and a day, but we can keep the coals hot until night and then spike it back up with some palm fronds, maybe find some driftwood, so that technically covers both a day and a night. Right?"

"Sure."

Sam probably should have helped, but Dean seemed to need to work off some extra energy. So Sam just lounged on his towel, while Dean wandered around dragging twigs and things out of the bushes. He even succeeded in finding some driftwood on the beach. Sam hadn't been optimistic on that point. The area didn't really have a lot of trees near the water line. He had always associated driftwood with the Pacific Northwest where whole trees washed up into great piles on the beach. Florida beaches somehow managed to suffice and Dean had a decent stack of burnable wood before long.

It was still daylight, but Dean apparently felt confident enough in his stockpile that he put a piece of driftwood on the fire. He went back to the car and retrieved more water, again handing Sam a bottle and joining him on the ground, after spreading out his own towel. They clinked bottles and Dean said, "To the Winchesters. We always save the day… eventually."

He placed a little too much emphasis on the word _eventually_ for Sam's liking. Could they have done more? If Sam hadn't been so distracted by his own twisted emotions that he failed to ask the right questions? Sophie hadn't known any more than Carl or Krissy Anne. She just talked more, filling in the details they hadn't thought to ask about. If Sam and Dean had stayed focused and been on their game, could they have prevented the blueberry girl's death?

"Eventually is better than not at all," Sam said quietly.

Dean picked at the paper label on his bottle. Sam was glad he'd opted for the pricey glass ones. It really did feel almost the same. Sharing a beer with Dean never was about the beer. It was about Sam and Dean sitting and talking or, more often, not talking at all, but sharing a companionable silence. He forgot every time and each swig of water startled him slightly with its distinctly non-beerlike taste.

The driftwood was sparking an odd purple color and Sam vaguely remembered a college chemistry lecture about carcinogens and how you weren't supposed to burn driftwood because of the chemicals released from the dried seawater. He wondered if he should mention it to Dean. It wasn't like the long-term effects of carcinogens were a big concern compared to their odds of being shot or stabbed or eaten by a monster.

"We should have brought marshmallows," Dean said.

"Driftwood gives off carcinogenic fumes," Sam said, feeling slightly smug about being able to share something he'd just been thinking about. "It makes for neat colors, but I don't think you should eat anything cooked over it. Also, y'know, try not to breathe too deeply."

"My little-ray-of-sunshine Sammy," Dean mumbled to himself. He took a swig of beer and then winced slightly at the not-beerness of the water, just like Sam did.

The distant shrieks of children were suddenly punctuated by an adult male voice. "Every time you interrupt me to ask me that, it takes longer!!"

A plaintive female voice added, "Don't bother your father. Just go and play. We'll call you when it's ready."

There were unclear murmurs and then the male voice rose again. "Anywhere but here!!"

The bushes rustled and a moment later three children stumbled into Sam and Dean's campsite.

"Hi," said the oldest boy.

"Hello," said the middle girl.

"Hewwo," said the smallest child half hidden under a yellow sunhat.

"Hello," Sam and Dean echoed back.

The older two children were about waist high. (Sam had never been very skilled at estimating the ages of children.) The youngest was considerably smaller.

"Did you set your camp stove on fire?" the boy asked, peering suspiciously at the remains of the projector.

"Dad set _our_ camp stove on fire," the girl volunteered. 

"Fiaw!" the sunhat added enthusiastically.

"Are you supposed to be talking to strangers?" Dean asked.

"Are _you_ supposed to be talking to strangers?" the boy countered.

Dean barely kept a straight face and gave Sam a nod that said he approved of the tiny smart ass.

"You're not supposed to burn driftwood," the girl said. "My science teacher said so. You don't know where it came from. It might be treated wood from an old pier."

"Is that so?" Dean asked. 

"You should get firewood from the store," the boy said, pointing a thumb vaguely over his shoulder.

"There's a store nearby that sells firewood?" Sam asked.

All three children, even sunhat, nodded. 

"They have ice cream and grape soda, too," the girl said, her priorities clearly in order.

"And you're sure they have firewood?" Dean asked.

"Dad just bought some after he set the camp stove on fire. Now he's trying to grill hotdogs over an open fire."

"I'm going to regret asking this," Dean said, "but how…?"

"Lighter fluid," the girl said.

"But," Sam said, more confused than ever, "you don't use lighter fluid on a camp stove."

With a world-weary sigh, the girl said, "I know that."

"I'm Dean. This is my brother Sam."

"Aiden."

"Chloe."

"Fiaw!" the sunhat said, transfixed by the flames.

"That's Kelsey," Aiden said.

"Okay, so, now that we're not strangers anymore," Dean said. "What's say you help us put this fire out and then show us where the store is."

The kids enthusiastically joined Dean in kicking sand on the fire. Sam was continually amazed at how quickly Dean made friends with kids. 

Between the sand and the rest of the water from Dean's bottle, they got the fire out. The projector was fairly well destroyed. It would never play another movie. However, with the fire out, it was easily recognizable for what it was, the empty takeup reel prominent and distinctly out of place.

"Why are you burning a movie projector?" Chloe asked.

Sam scrambled for a plausible explanation, but Dean just shrugged and said, "It was cursed by an evil witch."

"Did it kill people?" Chloe asked.

"Yup," Dean said.

"Cool!" said Aiden.

"Fiaw!" said Kelsey.

"So, about that firewood?" Sam said.

"This way," Aiden said and started down the drive. Kelsey stopped to examine a bug and Chloe crossed her arms at her youngest sibling and made judgemental _ahem_ noises to no avail.

Dean squatted down to Kelsey's level. "We're going to get more firewood to make a _bigger_ fire," he said.

"Fiaw!" Kelsey said and immediately fell in line.

Dean stood up and whispered to Sam, "Is Kelsey a girl's name or a boy's name?" 

Sam shrugged. He'd been about to ask the same thing.

They followed the kids over the bridge to the other island, which only underscored Sam's feelings that the entire place would be washed away in a storm. The camp store was up on stilts indicating the builder had similar feelings.

The kids scampered up the stairs. Sam saw a stack of firewood next to a freezer, the listed price double what they would have paid back home.

Dean winced. "I hope they take plastic. I gave all my cash to Sophie."

They walked up the wooden staircase leading to the store and were immediately reassured by the credit card logos in the door window.

A listless clerk sat slouching on a barstool in front of small AC unit, pretty much blocking the air from reaching the rest of the small shop. Although based on the young man's expression, it wasn't doing him much good either.

Dean told the clerk he was going to want a couple bundles of firewood and the way the kids were worshipping at the altar of candy, Sam figured that wouldn't be all he ended up paying for. Sam wandered back into the shop, idly thinking they should get more water to stave off the heat.

He perked up when he spotted the cooler of beer. The deal had _technically_ been no alcohol until they left Florida, but the _spirit_ of the thing had been vaguely until they finished the hunt and the hunt was finished or officially  _would be_ as soon as they finished burning the projector, which they could do while toasting their success. He pulled out a six pack and walked it up to the front counter.

"No," Aiden announced firmly. "You cannot accept candy from people. It's a rule!"

Chloe sighed dramatically, but obediently began putting the candy back on the shelves.

Dean waved at the beer and gave Sam a questioning shrug. Sam wondered if he should get more. Three beers each were more than enough if they planned to return to the hotel room tonight, but if Dean were planning to spend the night, perhaps another six pack wouldn't hurt. They could always save the extras for later, so there was no harm in buying too much. The campground store was overpriced, but not much more so than the local convenience stores.

He grabbed a second six pack and returned to find Chloe and Kelsey replacing the candy with potato chips. This didn't seem to sit entirely well with Aiden, but he couldn't seem to articulate the flaw in his siblings' plan. It was not, after all, _candy_ and they had obviously never been explicitly forbidden from taking potato chips from strangers.

Dean shook his head at Sam and said, "Uh, water? I already drank like half the water you bought before."

Which was still a valid point. Beer likely wouldn't do nearly enough for their hydration needs.

Sam again walked to the back of the store and this time returned with an armload of cold water bottles.

Dean had somehow convinced the kids to put back most, if not all, of the potato chips and instead had the clerk ringing up sandwiches. 

Sam set water on the counter and Dean muttered, "I swear, it's like herding cats."

And then to Sam's complete surprise, Dean grabbed both six packs and walked to the cooler in back. He returned with even more water. Sam pointedly raised his eyebrows in question, but Dean just gave him a single shake of his head, his classic _Not now_ gesture.

"Okay, this is it," Dean told the clerk. "This plus two bundles of firewood."

The clerk bagged up the bottles of water and the kids took their food without so much as a single thank-you between them. Sam and Dean headed down to get the firewood, leaving the kids behind arguing over who was getting whose cooties on whom.

"Remember when you used to think I was going to get cooties on you?" Dean asked, sounding oddly nostalgic for their old fights.

"I never thought you had cooties," Sam said, wondering if that was somehow the problem. Your brother was _supposed_ to have cooties. "I just said that whenever I didn't want to share."

Dean glanced up at where the kids were sitting on the steps eating their sandwiches and then silently mouthed "Bitch" at him. They each grabbed a bundle of firewood and one bag of the bottled water and headed back to the campsite.

Food apparently took precedence over "fiaw" because the kids didn't follow. They were halfway across the bridge before the scampering of feet caught up with them. The kids raced past and continued running far beyond Sam and Dean's campsite.

Once the kids were back out of earshot, Sam asked, "Why'd you put the beer back? The hunt is over."

"We agreed no alcohol until we leave town. We are still here. I keep my word. Also—"

The children stampeded back through the bushes just as Sam and Dean were setting down the firewood.

"Dad set fire to the hot dogs," Chloe announced cheerfully.

Sam pulled the charred driftwood out of the pit and Dean replaced it with the firewood, carefully surrounding the projector.

"Burned hot dogs look like mummified penises," Aiden announced.

Dean blinked at Sam, before replying, "That's unfortunate."

"Mom is making baked beans now," Chloe said.

"Baked beans are gross," Aiden said.

"Good thing Dean bought you sandwiches," Sam said, feeling like a thank you was significantly overdue.

"Fiaw!" Kelsey said, poking at the unlit wood.

Dean smirked. "These kids are almost as bad as you were."

"Excuse me?" Had Sam really taken Dean for granted that much growing up? But Dean smiled even wider and Sam realized he was being teased. " _Jerk_ ," he whispered.

"All right, stand clear," Dean said, as he lit the fire. The kids took maybe half a step back, but leaned in again as soon as the fire was going. Three sticks appeared almost out of nowhere and poking commenced.

Dean laughed and went and put the bottles of water in their old cooler. Sam sat down on his towel on the ground and watched the kids circle the fire. There was something hypnotic about fire that even Sam, despite a lifetime and a half of horrors, felt. He thought vaguely that he should be telling the children to be careful, but they weren't doing anything particularly reckless. Aiden and Chloe were lighting their sticks on fire, putting them out in the dirt, and then immediately relighting them over and over. Kelsey was entertaining… himself? herself? itself? by stabbing at the projector which made satisfying twanging sounds when it was hit.

"Well, it looks like the B team is on the case," Dean said. He sat down and handed Sam a bottle of water, one of the plastic ones they just picked up at the store.

Together, they just sat and watched the kids and the flames. A mosquito the size of a small helicopter landed on Dean's arm and Sam shooed it away several times, each time it circling back for some tasty Winchester skin, until he finally killed it with a victorious slap. Dean forgot the kids and yelped, "Bitch!" but seemed placated when Sam showed him a palm of insect gore and blood before wiping his hand off on the corner of his towel. 

Twilight slipped in just gradually enough that Sam didn't quite notice until it was nearly dark and a woman's voice called out, "Aiden! Chloe! Kelsey! Dinner!"

Aiden and Chloe tossed aside their sticks and disappeared in the direction of their mother's voice, but Kelsey continued to thump the projector, sending occasional sparks beyond the edge of the fire pit.

"How long y'think until they notice they lost one?" Sam asked.

"Give it a minute," Dean said.

In a beat, the voice returned with a frantic edge. "Kelsey?!"

"Over here!" Dean called out.

The woman dashed out of the bushes and upon spotting Kelsey at the fire, she looked equal parts relieved, embarrassed, and horrified—each emotion fighting for dominance on her face. "Oh! I am so sorry! Kelsey! You know better than that! Come and get your dinner!"  
   
"Bake beans aw gwoss," Kelsey protested.  
   
"Kelsey!" She grabbed the child's hand and tugged it away from the fire. To Sam and Dean, she offered a tight smile and repeated her apologies. "I am so sorry for bothering you."  
   
They disappeared back to their own campsite at which point her voice raised again. "What were you _thinking_?! How could you let Kelsey wander off with strange men??! You have no idea what kind of weirdos they might be!"  
   
Dean laughed and said, "She has no idea."  
   
"They could have been perverts!" the mother screamed, either unware or indifferent to how far her voice carried.  
   
Sam laughed wryly. _"Different kind_ of pervert."  
   
Which was apparently the wrong thing to say because Dean's face immediately fell.  
   
"Yeah, so," Dean said, pausing to clear his throat, "about that conversation you've been trying to have."  
   
"Dean, I—"  
   
"No. Hold on." Dean's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Just. Let me say this. Okay?"  
   
Sam had to clench his teeth to bite back a litany of apologies, excuses, and rationalizations, but he nodded silently.  
   
"Things between us have gotten a little… weird lately. I mean, we've probably always been a little weird, and by 'lately' I think I mean the last several years. But, it's like, you stay busy and you can keep it together, y'know. When everything is going to shit, there's no time to sweat the details."  
   
Sam nodded again. There was no denying that he was probably better in a crisis than he was trying to pass as a regular person. As much as Sam _wanted_ a vacation from the grind of hunting, he hadn't been coping very well with too much time to think. Dean was absolutely correct for calling him out on it.  
   
"And, y'know, we _need_ a vacation," Dean continued. He went to their cooler and dug around until he found the last of the glass bottles. He tossed one to Sam just as he would a bottle of beer, the routine comforting to both of them. "Lord knows we need a break, but…" He sat down, twisted the cap off his bottle, took a swig, and stared at the fire.   
   
"Dean, I—"  
   
"I said, 'Hold on', okay? This isn't easy. I can't deal with a bunch of interruptions."  
   
Sam rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to point out that all he'd interrupted was Dean fidgeting with his water bottle.  
   
"I think we've been through a little too much," Dean said. "We've lost the threads of right and wrong. We've started thinking we're above it all, like the rules don't apply to us anymore as long as we're getting the job done."  
   
"You think we should get paying jobs to cover expenses?" He knew that wasn't really what Dean was building up to, but he thought he should clarify.  
   
"Pfft! Hell, no. Hunting isn't exactly something you can schedule around a nine-to-five."  
   
"Not really."  
   
"I'm talking bigger picture. Y'know, raising the dead, drinking demon blood, that kind of crap. We've done a lot of messed up things is what I'm saying."  
   
"Agreed." It was even an understatement. More than one hunter had felt that _Sam_ was a justifiable target, as dangerous as the monsters he hunted. On his bad days, Sam worried they were right.  
   
"After going to actual Hell, it's a little hard to re-set and see that invisible line around Things Normal People Do _Not_ Do." Dean took a sip of water and then looked Sam carefully in the eye. "Normal people do not… _do things_ … with their brothers."  
   
Sam fought the urge to look away. He felt his face burning with shame and every instinct screamed at him to flee, but he owed Dean this. He had to look him in the face and accept his chastisement. He had to apologize like a man. "Dean, I—"  
   
"Let me finish," Dean interrupted. "This is not right. And we can't just pretend it's not happening or it's going to keep happening. Don't make any excuses for me. I'm sorry, but I need your help maintaining that line. Okay? I get out of bounds, you have to call me on it immediately."  
   
Sam's head was whirling and Dean's words weren't quite making sense. Dean was supposed to be yelling at him. "I don't think I understand."  
   
Dean blew out a frustrated breath of air. Maybe the yelling was about to start. "I never forget for a moment that you're my brother, okay? I need you to understand that. I don't know how things got this messed up in my head, but it was never that."  
   
"Dean?" If Sam didn't know better, he'd believe the ground was literally tilting away beneath him.  
   
"I have _feelings_ for you," Dean said, ignoring the interruption. "Very unbrotherly, inappropriate feelings."  
   
"Sexual feelings?" Sam breathed.   
   
Dean broke eye contact and nodded. He looked so small, so contrite, as if _he_ had done something wrong.  
   
Sam literally had no words. He just leaned in and ran his hand along Dean's jaw. Dean looked up, startled.

Sam brushed his thumb over Dean's lips and Dean swallowed, staring at him with wide, confused, and fucking beautiful eyes. Sam jumped off the cliff—felt himself falling as if the metaphor were literally true—and kissed Dean, a gentle press of lips, a tentative lick at Dean's bottom lip which tasted of salt air and suntan lotion.  
   
He pulled back and Dean had the same comically confused pre-kiss expression on his face, as if time had stopped for him and he hadn't fully registered what had just happened.  
   
"Sam, what did I _just_ say?"   
   
It was Dean in grumpy lecture-mode, like when he nagged Sam about the proper use of the Impala's emergency brake or which laundry detergent to buy, only this time he was muttering about boundaries and temptations and Sam laughed at him.  
   
"Sam!"  
   
"You _said_ I'm not alone in this," Sam said, adding a quick peck on Dean's lips for emphasis. "You said," and another pause for another kiss, this one bordering on a nibble, "that you feel the same way that I do."  
   
"Oh."  
   
"Yeah."  
   
"But—"  
   
"Don't care."  
   
"It's wrong."  
   
"Don't care."  
   
"But—"  
   
"Kiss me."  
   
And Dean did. It was so quick, the brief contact of lips barely registered. Dean pulled back and stared at Sam searchingly, as if he were expecting Sam to freak out or protest despite being the one begging for it.  
   
"Kiss me ag—" Sam couldn't even get the word out before Dean had him on his back in the dirt, their towels tangling at his feet.  
   
They got their arms in each other's way as they tried to touch each other everywhere simultaneously. 

Sam got in his _own_ way, the impulse to fondle warring with the impulse to hold Dean as tightly as possible and just _cling_. 

He wanted to stare at his brother, examine every inch of skin, rethinking everything from this new perspective… and he wanted to close his eyes and just _feel_.  
   
And, oh, there was so much to feel. As Dean slid his body on top of Sam, his erection was unmistakable and, though startled, Sam instantly began to swell in response. Sam canted his hips very deliberately, making sure Dean was aware the arousal was mutual.  
   
"Gwoss!"  
   
They froze. Dean's head snapped up. Sam couldn't even get his bearings to figure out where the voice had come from.  
   
"Baked beans are not gross! They are good for you!" a woman shouted.  
   
Dean's head collapsed onto Sam's shoulder as they both let out a sigh of relief. "We _cannot_ be the only people in this campground that want to murder that whole family," Dean muttered into Sam's ear.  
   
"Naw hunggy!!" Kelsey shouted.   
   
"You have to eat something!"  
   
"Had sammich!"  
   
"Where on earth did you get a sandwich?!"  
   
There was a heavy silence.  
   
"We should go back to the hotel," Sam suggested.  
   
Dean stood up and dusted himself off, picking up and shaking out his towel. "Got to make sure the projector is destroyed," he said gruffly.   
   
"It's as destroyed as it's gonna get," Sam pointed out.  
   
"Fire's still burning," Dean said. "We can't leave a fire unattended."  
   
Sam leaned back on his elbows and stared at Dean in disbelief. "Seriously?"   
   
If he didn't know better, he wouldn't even be able to tell that Dean was aroused, which he had to be, because two and a half seconds ago something pretty solid had been rubbing against Sam's crotch. He could imagine a shadow where Dean's dick had to be and now that he was really looking for it, it was obvious that Dean had adjusted his shirt over the front of his swim trunks, but, damn, it was totally unfair the way that he could just hide it like that with almost no tenting effect at all. Sam, on the other hand, was ready to host a full circus.  
   
Dean noticed and tossed his towel into Sam's lap. "Jesus, man, cover up. We're in public. What if those kids came back?"  
   
"I could get behind that murdering-the-whole-family idea," Sam said, as another round of squeals rose up in the distance. An angry voice from the far side of the campground followed, and though Sam couldn't quite make out the words, he had a feeling that someone else could get behind that plan as well.  
   
Dean poked at the fire with one of the sticks the kids had left behind, his eyebrows scrunched in concentration as if keeping the fire going depended upon it.  
   
Sam stretched and tried to think clean, wholesome thoughts, but drew a complete blank, so he thought sulky, resentful thoughts instead. 

He got up and went to the car, undecided whether his plan was an attempt at seducing Dean in the backseat or to change into less revealing pants, but his principal motive was to just hide his body from view until he got himself under control. He failed at all three when he opened the car door and was hit with a wave of heat that the Impala had been storing up since the sun went down.  
   
Step one, open up all four doors in the hopes of a cross breeze airing out the car. Step two, fill the car with mosquito repellent while hoping enough of it wouldn't be carried away by that hypothetical cross breeze to keep them from being bitten to death overnight, since they were obviously going to have to sleep with the windows open.   
   
It was generally not conducive to arousal and Sam changed into jeans only because of the mosquitos as his modestly was no longer an issue. He even pulled on a long-sleeve shirt despite the lingering heat and humidity. Given his options, he decided he'd rather sweat to death than itch to death.  
   
He was adding a spritz of insect repellent to his shirt, when Dean wandered over for a dosing. He sort of _presented_ himself, arms out, and said, "Hit me."  
   
"Tempting," Sam muttered, but he resisted and sprayed repellent over Dean's arms instead.   
   
He squatted down and sprayed Dean's bare legs and Dean turned around so he could get the back half of his body.   
   
"I'm getting a lot of mixed signals here," Sam told Dean's butt.  
   
"Oh, just get up here."  
   
Sam stood and Dean turned, almost curling himself into Sam's arms, because, of course, _now_ Dean wanted to cuddle, now that they were coated in gross chemicals that Sam could already taste at the back of his throat.  
   
"A _lot_ of mixed signals," Sam repeated.  
   
"I don't put out on the first date," Dean mumbled into his shoulder.  
   
"Like hell you don't."  
   
"There's a lot to process here."  
   
"We should go back to the hotel," Sam said again. He wanted privacy. He wanted a comfortable bed. He wanted air conditioning. More than anything, he wanted a shower. No, more than _anything_ , he wanted Dean in that shower with him, but soap and water were still high on the list.  
   
"I'm not ready," Dean said, almost a whisper, so sincere and raw that Sam knew all wheedling was over for the night, but that it didn't matter.   
   
"Okay," Sam said. It was more than okay. Dean was _in his arms_ , had kissed him, was letting a hug linger beyond the maximum three-mississippis and a manly back-slap. "You know we never have to do anything that you're uncomfortable with. I mean physically, if you don't want to go there, we don't ever have to—"  
   
"I said I don't put out on a _first_ date," Dean said. "Don't write me off as a monk or something."  
   
Sam gave Dean's back an extra squeeze and nuzzled into his neck. "The main thing is that I think it's enough just that I can say I'm in love with you." Sam leaned back so he could make sure Dean could see his face. He cupped Dean's chin to tilt his head up and after making solid eye contact said, "I'm _in love_ with you. And I'm _happy_. And also itchy and sweaty and generally uncomfortable, but still pretty happy."  
   
Dean's eyes shone, reflected firelight dancing out of the shadows of his face. His response was barely audible. "I'm in love with you too."  
   
And then Dean cleared his throat, gave Sam a manly back-slap, stepped away, and walked back to the fire.   
   
Sam gave up and joined him, tossing a few more pieces of firewood on top of the pile of metal that only resembled a projector if you knew what you were looking for. He brought the last one down with force and, though it produced a satisfying dent, the resulting clang was jarringly loud and a dog started barking in the distance in response.  
   
Sam went to the car's trunk. He grabbed a flashlight and, because he didn't trust campground restrooms, a roll of toilet paper. "I'm going to hike over to the toilets. You, uh…?"  
   
"I don't pee anymore," Dean announced. "I just sweat my urine straight into the air. It's more efficient that way."  
   
"Okay, try not to die of kidney failure while I'm gone."  
   
The toilets were back by the store and the walk in the dark emphasized how _not_ remote the campsite was. Campfires and glowing tents and camper vans were dotted every few feet. There was still the occasional dog bark, distant road noise from the mainland, and it sounded like Kelsey et al were not the only family of fussy children. He read license plates as he walked. Indiana, Pennsylvania… Florida plates on cars with rental company bumper stickers and a suprising number of Florida plates on cars _without_ rental company stickers.   
   
One rusty old beater had a faded bumper sticker that read "Pray for Me — I drive U.S. 19" which Sam assumed the locals found wryly amusing. In Sam's experience, Americans everywhere were each convinced of the uniqueness of their local experience. Every bad curve was "the most dangerous stretch of road in the country" and every traffic jam the result of "the worst interchange in the U.S. highway system." Sam had not yet been to a state that did not consider itself notorious among all fifty for its extreme weather. "You know what they say about… New Hampshire… Idaho… Kentucky…" Fill in the blank with any state, and the saying was probably still true, though you might have to swap out "blizzard" for "mudslide" or "tornado" for "nor'easter" depending.  
   
The toilets were solid and functional and far from the most disgusting that Sam had ever seen, but he still had to duck under low hanging spider webs in the doorway. There was not a single square of toilet paper to be found, so out of sympathy for the next guy, Sam left behind his roll. There were only two sinks and sitting directly between them was a small lizard with an oddly forked tail. If there had been soap available, Sam might have overcome the lizard, but he decided he wasn't going to challenge its territory just for tap water. He'd wipe down with hand sanitizer when he got back to the car.  
   
As he walked back to the campsite, Sam added _Take a shower_ to his mental to-do list which currently consisted of, _Take a shower, Take a shower, Eat something that's not deep-fried, Take a shower, Fuck Dean to the moon and back,_ and also _Take a shower._ All of which could be accomplished simultaneously given a broad definition of _eat_ , but none of which were going to happen tonight.  
   
"Mom! Aiden's farting at me _on purpose!"_  
   
"Am not!"  
   
The argument was faint in the distance, but the problem was that the sound was definitely _behind_ him which meant that Sam had walked past not only his own campsite, but several more besides. He remembered belatedly that since they had no camper or tent, Dean had pulled all the way into their site, unlike most of the campers whose cars were barely off the road. There was no familiar Ohio license plate to be seen in between Nebraska and Indiana.  
   
Just as he was wondering how far he was going to have to backtrack, his phone rang.  
   
"Dude? You fall in?"  
   
"What number is our campsite?" Sam asked, aiming his flashlight at a wooden post with 57 carved into it.  
   
"You got lost?"  
   
"I just walked past it."  
   
"You got _lost?"_  
   
"I got _distracted."_  
   
"What's so distracting about a campground after dark?"  
   
"The thought of what I'm going to do to you when we get back to the hotel."  
   
"Jesus, get your mind out of the gutter," Dean said, his voice shaking slightly. "Here I'm worried you got eaten by a gator and you're just wandering around out there writing porn scripts in your head."  
   
"Does porn even _have_ scripts?"  
   
There was a sharp whistle down the road that echoed in his ear and Sam looked up to see a glow where Dean was waving his phone back and forth.  
   
"Okay, I see you," Sam said, before realizing he was talking to empty air. Dean was waving his phone, not listening to it.  
   
When he got close enough to see more than a vague outline, he realized Dean had changed into jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. It wasn't that it was particularly cool with the sun down and Sam hoped it was the mosquitos rather than modesty that prompted Dean to change. He didn't want things to get weird _er_ between them.  
   
Dean greeted him with a silent nod and then walked backwards as he entered the campsite, staring at him perhaps expectantly, but Sam wasn't sure what he was expecting.  
   
"Hey."  
   
"Hi."  
   
So, things were already weirder between them.   
   
"You're cute when you're a dork," Sam said.  
   
"Shut up."  
   
"Make me."  
   
"Not here!" Dean whispered through clenched teeth.  
   
Sam got into the back seat of the car. "Here?"  
   
Dean walked around the car, closing the doors as he went, and then got into the _front_ seat. Sam sighed. It had been worth a try.  
   
He settled in, knowing it would take awhile for sleep to come if it ever did. He adjusted his position several more times before Dean's voice faintly asked, "We're okay, right?"  
   
Sam stared at the car's ceiling. He wondered if Dean knew the lining was sagging in the back. "We're okay. We're more than okay. I love you." He winced at the last part. It was probably too much, too desperate.  
   
"I love you," Dean said. He really _said_ it. Not an embarrassed whisper, no qualifying _man_ at the end of it. "I… so what I was thinking is we ought to hit a laundromat tomorrow. Or maybe just buy clean towels. We could hit the beach again. Or there's this garden with talking birds and they have fudge in the gift shop. We went there once. The wax Jesus made you cry."  
   
Sam wanted to tell Dean to breathe, but first, "Wax Jesus?"  
   
"They had this like religious display with all these wax figures and the crucifixion scene was kind of… vivid."  
   
"I have no memory of this. We were here before?"  
   
"You were really little. I don't even know what the case was, so I guess I was really little too. Dad dropped us off at the garden for a few hours and told me to stay out of trouble. It was pretty, I think. I don't know. I mainly remember the fudge. You liked the fudge. They had all these different flavors and the fudge lady let us try all the samples."  
   
"I seriously have no memory of this _at all_. Are you sure it was here? I remember a place in… Kentucky, I think… that had a fudge shop and concrete dinosaurs that we climbed all over."  
   
"No, that was years later. A haunting case, I think. This was before Dad took us on cases. You were in a stroller. I remember pushing you around the garden."  
   
"Jesus, Dean, if I was in a stroller, you would have been about five-and-a-half, six max. Who leaves a six year old alone like that? Didn't anyone think it was weird that we were there by ourselves?"  
   
"'Our Dad's in the bathroom,'" Dean quoted. "That was the standard line in public. We were never _alone_ , we were just 'waiting for Dad' who was getting something from the car or going to the bathroom or, in a big enough crowd, you could always point to some other family and say 'over there'."  
   
"I just want to hug you forever," Sam said. He did not say, _to make up for it_ , because there was no making up for their messed up childhood. But he wanted so badly to hold Dean, to send love _through time_ to that little boy who had done everything for Sam only for Sam to fuss and complain at every turn.  
   
"Or if you're not into that place," Dean continued, "there's this amusement park over in Tampa that has roller coasters and everything plus a bunch of zoo animals like giraffes and things. You like giraffes."  
   
Sam did not believe he had ever uttered the words _I like giraffes_ in his entire life, but Dean was so sure of himself that Sam believed him. At some point in time, he must have said _I like giraffes and orange soda_ and Dean had filed the information away. 

"Sure," Sam said, "let's go see the giraffes tomorrow."  
 

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	10. Better With Sausage

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

The first sound that Sam was aware of as he awoke was the car trunk slamming shut. It vibrated through the seat where he was stretched out. The sound might have startled him, but Dean's footsteps in the dirt were leisurely and unhurried so all was well. He didn't question how he could be so sure they were _Dean's_ footsteps, but he was literally willing to stake his life on it.

Without even opening his eyes, he peeled off the long-sleeve shirt that was clinging to his sweaty skin. He wasn't comfortable enough to _want_ to go back to sleep, but he wasn't particularly motivated to get up either, especially since he knew from experience that sitting up would trigger a cascade of small aches down his back from sleeping in a cramped position all night.

The scraping of a shovel against the ground confused him. His memory filled in the details of a hundred salt-n-burns, but there was daylight beyond his eyelids and he couldn't think why Dean would be digging a grave in the morning, least of all why he wouldn't wake Sam to help with the shoveling.

It was the sound of something shrieking in the distance that finally snapped all the pieces back in place. He never did figure out if it was children or seagulls making that shrill noise, but it was enough for him to remember the beachside campground. He finally dragged himself upright and out of the car to find Dean digging a hole in the middle of what had been their campfire.

Sam grunted questioningly and waved vaguely at the hole. Wording was not happening before coffee and they had no coffee so fuck wording.

Dean pointed the shovel at the pile of scrap metal stacked to the side and then went back to digging.

With exactly zero words exchanged, they finished digging out the hole, dumped in the remains of the projector, ringed it in salt, and gave it an extra shot of holy water before burying it beneath the fire pit.

It was only about half-past Way Too Damned Early when they drove out of the campground. Sam might have whimpered as he curled up in the passenger seat. He wasn't actually aware of doing so, but Dean leaned over and sort of scritched his head and said, "It's okay, Princess. You'll get your coffee soon enough."

They ended up at a roadside coffee stand, drinking from paper cups at a picnic table that had been painted green once upon a time. The peeling paint revealed that it had been painted blue before that. Dean cleared his throat as he sat down. "We, uh, need to do laundry. Or you need to change. Both." Dean blushed and repeated, "Both. You need to change and we need to do laundry."

Sam squinted at him and tried to make sense of Dean's discomfort. The words made perfect sense, but Dean's obvious embarrassment did not.

"You got a little schmutz on your…" Dean gestured over his shoulder at his own back.

Sam craned his neck to look over his shoulder and tugged his shirt around into view. There was a large filthy patch of ground-in dirt. Sam felt his own ears pink up. To the casual observer, he was merely dirty. It would not be inaccurate for someone to assume he was a workman of some kind. But to Sam and Dean, it was a reminder that they had been literally rolling in the dirt the night before. 

"I can change," Sam said. "We can do laundry later. After the amusement park?"

He slowly reached across the table. Dean's hand twitched slightly as if it meant to flinch away, but, at the last moment, Dean reached out to meet Sam's hand. Sam gave it a squeeze and laughed. They were holding hands. There were drinking coffee and holding hands and they were about to go—on a date?—to an amusement park to celebrate the successful completion of the job.

"Stop grinning like a weirdo and drink your coffee," Dean said, but he had a dippy grin on his own face.

And he didn't let go.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam ditched the dirty T-shirt and changed into the ugly Hawaiian shirt and sunhat. He wasn't keen on the sunhat, but it helped encourage Dean to put on his own sunhat because then they both looked stupid together. And Dean _needed_ to wear his sunhat because the skin in between his freckles was always threatening to burn and Sam was very much against anything that might discourage touching later.

In hindsight, they ought to have worn their swim trunks instead of their jeans, but Sam hadn't realized there were water rides in addition to roller coasters. The first ride they went on was a raft thing and they both got splashed and ended up squelching damply around the park for the rest of the day, but Sam was too happy to be bothered by it. 

Dean was in a weird mood. Gruff and swaggering one moment, tender and flirty the next. He held Sam's hand on the thrill rides, yet avoided eye contact in the gift shop. He bought Sam snacks and asked him what he'd like to do next in an almost chivalrous manner and then would turn around and give orders without a thought. He flirted with the waitress when they got lunch and casually referred to Sam as his brother, but then told the woman in line behind them waiting for one of the roller coasters that he and Sam were celebrating their first anniversary. He was clearly playing around with their shifting roles, trying to find something that fit, and not quite being at ease with any of it.

For Sam's part, he couldn't decide how he felt about this new quirk in their backstory. Did they introduce themselves to new people as brothers and pretend not to be a couple? Or introduce themselves as a couple and pretend not to be brothers? Or maybe stick to whatever work cover fit best and pretend to be neither?

He also couldn't decide how he felt about Dean's flirting with pretty women who crossed his path. Or rather, he couldn't decide how he _should_ feel about it, because what he _did_ feel was jealousy. He just didn't think he was supposed to. Dean was going to flirt. It was a given. Dean probably didn't know how _not_ to flirt. It was something he did automatically, like breathing. Being charming was just part of who Dean was and he was undeniably attractive so there were going to be a lot of flirting opportunities and just occasionally… well, Sam should probably face that Dean was bound to have the occasional itch that Sam couldn't scratch. 

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Sam glanced up and Dean handed him a large paper cup. This was obviously not the time or the place for Sam to ask how often Dean thought he might need extracurricular activities away from Sam. He accepted the cup and said, "So where are these giraffes you promised me?"

His thoughts must have shown more than he realized because Dean actually _took his hand_ and led him to the train. They ended up in line behind a boy and a girl and a small child of indeterminate gender in a sunhat and Sam experienced a moment of _déjà vu_ —but the girl was older and the sunhat was green. Children were all fairly interchangeable in Sam's mind. They were with a grandfatherly gentleman in Bermuda shorts and a short-sleeve shirt in mismatched plaids. He was sort of half-Bobby Singer and half-Santa-in-the-off-season. His eyes flicked down to their joined hands. His expression was disapproving, but then again maybe Gramps disapproved of everything.

He was exactly the sort of crusty old codger they knew growing up in hunter dives (minus the socks-with-Crocs obviously) and Sam fully expected Dean to drop his hand and snap back into his pseudo-military mode in the face of an old general. But Dean surprised him by giving Sam's hand an extra squeeze. "Beautiful day, isn't it? The brochure said you can see the giraffes from the train," he announced cheerfully. Sam wasn't sure if Dean was talking to him or to their new neighbors in line, but it was the boy who responded.

"I want to see zebras!"

"Giraffes are _way_ cooler than zebras," Dean insisted.

"You know what would be even cooler?" the boy said. "Zebra-giraffes!"

"Would that be _ziraffes_ or _giebras_?" Dean asked.

"Giebras are zebras with giraffe spots," the girl answered confidently without any hesitation. "And ziraffes are giraffes with zebra stripes."

"I want a _ziraffe_ ," the boy announced breathlessly.

"I want a _beer_ ," Gramps muttered. With a sigh, he added to Sam and Dean, "They used to give out free beer back in the day. I wouldn't have agreed to this if I'd known they don't have the free beer anymore."

"Free beer?"

"It was a brewery before it was an amusement park. Don't know why they added animals, but you'd come for a brewery tour and watch the animals. They kept expanding the park part, added roller coasters and such, but they still had the brewery. By the time their mom was yay-high, the kids wanted to come for the park and the brewery tour was just a bonus for the grownups."

"Cool," Dean said.

"Damn right. But apparently, free beer isn't considered 'family friendly' these days. Hrmph. Where do they think families come from anyway? Wouldn't have half as many people on the planet without beer." He glanced back down at where Sam and Dean were still holding hands, "but I don't suppose you boys need to worry about any happy accidents."

"Not likely," Dean agreed.

There was an awkward silence and then Gramps added, "Unless you want to adopt. Bet a lot of those kids owe their existence to beer."

Dean looked mildly panicked at the thought. It was a shame really. Dean would make an amazing father, but there was no way they would ever bring an innocent child into their lives.

They were rescued by the arrival of the train. It was a narrow-gauge, open-air train that gave visitors a view of the animals as it traveled around the park. Sam gulped down the last of his beverage and tossed the cup before climbing aboard. Dean slid in next to him, but didn't automatically take Sam's hand. Sam was waffling over whether it was his turn to make the first move when Dean slid his arm around Sam's shoulders.

Dean proudly pointed out the giraffes when they came into view. Sam gave exactly zero shits about the giraffes, but this was still the best day ever. "Thank you."

Dean beamed.

Just as they were getting off the train, Dean's pocket started singing.

_Remember those walls I built?_  
_Well, baby, they're tumbling down_  
_And they didn't even put up a fight_  
_They didn't even make a sound_  
_I found a way to let you in_  
_But, I never really had a doubt_  
_Standing in the light of your halo_  
_I got my angel now  
_

"I am _so_ judging you right now," Sam said.

"Hey, he's the one who decided he's Agent Beyoncé," Dean said, reaching into his pocket to silence the phone.

"You're not answering?"

"Vacation. We agreed. We deserve a vacation. Whatever it is, I'm sure he can handle it."

Castiel was another worry. How long until the angel caught them out? Was it possible he'd remain oblivious? And now that Dean was finally admitting he found certain men attractive, would he be rethinking that _just friends_ thing with Castiel? 

Sam hated being the insecure, jealous boyfriend—but he was still very unsure of where he stood with Dean. He was, however, increasingly clear on where Dean stood with him. Every time a beautiful woman walked by, even a truly stunning one that caught Sam's eye, all he thought was _would Dean rather have her?_ He might not want to be clingy and possessive, but he totally was. All he wanted was Dean and he didn't want to share.

"So, I don't know about you," Sam said, "but I'm kind of 'thrilled out'. Want to grab some food and head back to the hotel?" It was still early and Sam wasn't that tired, but he really, _really_ wanted to be back at the hotel with Dean _alone_.

"Yeah, thrill rides are kind of dull compared to a typical day on the job," Dean agreed. "I liked that spinny one though—but we should have saved the raft ride for last. My jeans _still_ feel damp."

The walk back to the parking lot was lengthy and Sam suspected Dean got lost once, but Dean insisted he _just wanted to see what was over this way first_ and they stopped for drinks and pretzels halfway to the exit.

By the time, they made it to the car, Sam was really looking forward to that hot tub, but Dean surprised—and irritated—him by pulling into the parking lot of a laundromat instead of heading back to the hotel.

"Really?"

"We agreed. Our stuff is all gross."

"But… tomorrow maybe?"

"We're here now," Dean said as he got out of the car.

Sam rolled his eyes but surrendered. He had to pick his battles when Dean was in one of his stubborn moods and laundry wasn't the hill on which to fight. They carried in their dirty laundry and a clean change of clothes each. The laundromat somehow managed to be grungy while smelling of bleach.

There was a color palette of exactly four colors used by every laundromat that Sam had ever been in. Six if you counted black and dirty off-white as colors. They were always dirty off-white and ugly green or dirty off-white and ugly yellow or dirty off-white and ugly reddish orange or dirty off-white and ugly turquoise. Not just any old shade of ugly either; they were always those four very specific colors. There was your classic ugly green, what they used to call avocado because it looked like guacamole that had been left out too long and which stylish people were attempting to rebrand as sage these days. There was your dark mustard yellow, speckles optional. There was that faded tomato red that left you unsure if the original pre-faded color had been red or orange. And there was turquoise, with or without that odd pattern that looked like someone had sprinkled rubber bands randomly over the counter. You would think that the world contained more color options for a laundromat than this, but you would be wrong. If a laundromat considered itself particularly festive, you might get combinations like dirty-white, ugly green, _and_ faded tomato. This laundromat went all out and used them all.

Sam dumped his stuff on the counter and went to the bathroom to change. It was a single toilet and tiny sink, with no place to put his things down on and barely enough room to even turn around, so that even something as simple as changing his clothes was comically difficult. When he returned and dumped his dirty clothes into the wash, Dean took his turn. Sam considered warning him, but he figured there was no point. They had two loads between them so while he waited for Dean's stuff, he went ahead and started the first load. The elderly woman who had been folding her clothes packed up and left and Sam realized they were alone.

The washer had an unbalanced wobble to it with an extra squeak that suggested something might be wrong with the bearings. If he had owned the machine, he would have called a repairman to prevent excess wear and tear, but experience said it would make it through this load. Sam hopped up and sat on the machine, which smoothed it out somewhat.

Dean returned, looking freshly annoyed from the travails of the tiny bathroom, and shook his head at him. "You look like a pervy washing machine fetishist," Dean said as he finished loading the next washer.

"Not denying it," Sam said.

Dean started the washer and hopped up to sit next to Sam although his machine had no more than the usual mild vibrations.

"I got the fun one," Sam said, leaning in for a kiss.

Dean dodged him and got back off the washer. "Dude! We're in public!"

"We're alone. The old lady with the sheets left. Come here."

"It's still _public_. Anyone walking by can see us. There are security cameras. I'm not getting arrested for indecency just because you can't control yourself."

"I'm not suggesting you whip it out," Sam said. "Just come over here and give me a kiss."

Dean looked around as if he didn't trust that another old lady wouldn't pop out of a dryer or something to catch them and then he furtively slipped in close and gave Sam what he perhaps meant to be a fleeting kiss. Sam, however, held on and pulled Dean in even closer, deepening the kiss and trapping Dean between his legs. And, yeah, the vibrations from the washing machine were making it kind of interesting. Dean shuddered and kissed back very enthusiastically until he suddenly twisted away and retreated to the opposite side of the laundromat, still panting.

"What?!" Sam whined. Even Sam had to admit to himself that he definitely whined.

"There are lines I am not ready to cross yet. Maybe ever. Laundromat sex? That's on the maybe-not-ever list."

"It was just a kiss," Sam insisted, hearing the lie in his voice even as he said it.

 _"That_ was more than a kiss and you know it."

"But—"

"There are _lines_."

Sam growled in frustration as he jumped off the washer. Dean actually took a step back, eyes wide.

"I'm going to go get food," Sam announced and walked out. He was pretty sure he'd seen a neon sign advertising pizza just a few storefronts down.

He made sure he was out of sight of the laundromat's front windows before he paused to adjust his dick, which kind of agreed with Dean that it had been more than a kiss. He took a moment for pure thoughts and a few stretches to get himself under control before stalking onward to the pizza place.

The problem was that for Dean there were still lines, to cross or not cross as the case may be, but Sam knew in his heart that there was nothing he wouldn't do if Dean asked, up to and including laundromat sex. He tried to think of a scenario he'd say no to, but that was very much the opposite of clean thoughts and he had to stop and stretch and clear his head again.

The pizza place was busy, which was a good sign, but that meant Sam stood around waiting for awhile before he even got his order in. They had a special called a Veggie Max which he ordered partly because it honestly sounded delicious and partly because he knew it would annoy Dean.

The guy at the counter warned him that it would be approximately a twenty-minute wait. He could have just gone back to the laundromat while he waited. He _should_ have at least called Dean and given him an ETA on the food. Instead, he put money in the pinball machine and zoned out focusing on the ball. He wasn't even sure whether they were behind or ahead of their estimate when his pizza came up.

He got a couple of large drinks which he balanced carefully on top of the box. He pushed his way out of the restaurant easily enough, but the laundromat doors were an obstacle with his hands full. A laundry really ought to have automatic doors since you were pretty much guaranteed to be entering with your hands full, but too few of them did. Inside, he could see Dean transferring their stuff to the dryers so the pizza must have taken longer than they said it would. He still looked upset. He had a scowl on his face as he roughly tossed things around and slammed the dryer doors.

Sam waited outside the glass doors and just watched. Even when he was in a snit, Dean was gorgeous. He finally glanced up and noticed Sam with the pizza. Dean had the most beautiful smile in the entire universe and Sam hated himself for being such a sap, especially since the smile was most likely aimed at the pizza.

Dean got the door for him. "Hello, beautiful," he said to the pizza. Sam tried not to smile and failed.

There was a counter for folding clothes on, but it was one of the grungier surfaces in the laundromat, so Sam opted to use one of the washing machines as their table. Dean accepted his drink and eagerly popped the lid of the pizza box. His expression immediately turned suspicious. "What," he asked, picking up a chunk of artichoke heart, "is this? And what is it doing on my pizza?"

"It's called a vegetable," Sam answered.

"It's not the kind of vegetable you put on a pizza. You put mushrooms and tomatoes on pizza, not artichokes."

Sam was actually impressed that Dean recognized an artichoke heart on sight, but he wasn't going to admit it. "Technically neither tomatoes nor mushrooms are vegetables."

"Tell me there's at least sausage here somewhere," Dean said poking at a piece of onion.

"I got extra cheese," Sam said.

"No sausage?"

"You know what they say about pizza being like sex," Sam said.

"It's better with sausage?" Dean replied.

Sam choked on his root beer.

Dean patted his back and then made things worse by patting his butt before turning away to put quarters in the dryers.

Sam could live without sex. He had lived without sex for rather long stretches of his life. Obviously, those stretches where he was getting it regularly were better, but the point was that Sam was very skilled at pushing his personal desires to the side and getting on with life. If Dean wanted a platonic relationship even after admitting his feelings, Sam could deal with that. Sam could _not_ deal with Dean changing his mind every forty-two seconds.

Dean stooped to trying the veggie pizza and failed to disguise his satisfied—and vaguely obscene— _mmmmm_. When he caught Sam watching him, he mumbled with his mouth full, "Okay, points for the double cheese."

Once the laundry was done and folded as slowly as humanly possible (because Dean was so obviously stalling), they headed back to the hotel. Sam waited until Dean parked and turned off the ignition, before saying, "Just to avoid any mixed signals or confusion, are we having sex tonight?"

Dean stared at him in wide-eyed silence. His head wobbled as if he were trying to nod and shake it side-to-side at the same time. His jaw tensed and he ended up giving Sam an apologetic smile and half-shrug.

"And just to be extra clear, I'm okay with the answer being no. I'd just like to know for sure ahead of time so I'm in the right frame of mind."

"I think," Dean rasped, cleared his throat and continued, "I'm not. I want… but… I don't think…"

"Okay, so no sex tonight," Sam said, letting Dean off the hook. "Do you think there will be sex _ever_?"

Dean's mouth kept moving as if he intended to answer, but he brought himself up short each time and just sort of guppy-breathed silently.

"Okay," Sam repeated, trying to convince himself that it really was okay. "No sex tonight. No _talking_ about sex tonight. Understood."

They grabbed their bags and went into the lobby where, no surprise, the elevator's "Out of Order" sign was still in place. They walked up the stairs without saying anything, partially out of awkwardness, partially to save their breath for the final flights.

The room was hot and smelled stale. Dean had turned off the AC when he'd left the morning before and housekeeping had clearly given up on the stairs. Sam dumped his bags on the bed, turned on the AC, and then hunted down the worst sources of the smell. The rest of the fruit in the basket still looked okay, but the bananas were well past their prime. He pitched them in the trash and then moved all the trash cans into the hallway outside.

Dean called dibs on the shower while he was distracted. It was supremely unfair.

Sam sighed and kicked off his shoes. He grabbed an orange from the fruit basket and wandered out onto the balcony. For a moment, he thought the glass door must be tinted because the clouds were pink, but as he slid back the door and stepped out into open air, the clouds stayed pink. He absently peeled his orange while staring at the sky. It wasn't pinkish. It was pink. _Hot_ pink. With a band of bright orange highlighting the lower edges of the clouds. The colors slowly shifted as he watched, somehow becoming _more_ intense.

He was on his second orange when he heard Dean come out of the shower. "Dude, come here. You have to see the sunset."

"Yeah, in a minute."

"No, hurry. You don't want to miss this. The sky is rainbow sherbet."

"The sky is—? Whoa."

"Yeah," Sam said, handing Dean a couple of orange slices. "It was even cooler about three minutes ago. The sky just keeps changing."

They stood shoulder to shoulder and watched. Almost as soon as he'd finished saying it was prettier before, it got more beautiful still. The sun finally ducked below the horizon and the backlit clouds seemed to glow like neon against a darkening sky for several magical seconds before fading back to regular gray clouds again.

"You really have to be looking at just the right moment," Sam said.

Dean nodded and then said, "Go shower. You stink."

"So romantic," Sam muttered as he walked away.

Sam showered efficiently, too tired to even consider recreational activities. He just wanted to scrub away the dirt and grime and palmetto bugs and mosquitos and sand fleas and sweat and whatever else he'd gotten on him in the two days since he'd last had a proper shower. He used extra shampoo and rubbed down more forcefully than usual with a washcloth. It was only when he was done that he realized that being abandoned by housekeeping meant they had no clean towels left. He supposed he should be grateful that they still had toilet paper because the situation could have been worse. Still, he stood there dripping, wringing out his hair and wondering how long it would take to drip-dry when there was a gentle knock at the door.

"Yeah?"

The door opened a crack and Dean's hand slipped in, holding Sam's beach towel.

"Thanks," Sam said taking the towel.

"Good thing we stopped and did laundry, huh?"

"Do you always have to say 'I told you so'?"

"Only when I'm right," Dean said, his voice growing slightly fainter as he walked away from the door, "which I always am."

Sam toweled off, slipped into some lightweight boxers and a T-shirt, and then brushed his teeth. 

He half-expected that Dean would be bunking down on the couch when he was done or maybe settling in with a movie on TV. Sam, for his part, was tired after a long day and was ready to turn in. 

Dean was pacing around, fiddling with an orange. 

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Today was fun," Sam said.

"Yeah."

"You said you booked the hotel for a week. That makes tomorrow our last day?"

"Doesn't mean we have to hurry back," Dean said. "I say we take the slow scenic route, yeah?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"So, tomorrow, you want to do a boat tour or, I don't know, they probably have more art museums?"

"If we're only here for one more day, I think we should stay in and take advantage of the hot tub."

Dean swallowed. "Absolutely," he breathed in a faint whisper.

They stood staring at each other for a long moment.

It sounded stupid, even in his own head, but… "Come and be my big spoon?" Sam asked, nodding towards the bed.

He was pleasantly surprised when Dean nodded and didn't even rib him for going to bed early like an old man. Sam climbed into bed, and Dean turned out the lights. Sam folded his towel on top of his pillow to soak up any remaining dampness and then lay down on his stomach, head turned away so it wouldn't be awkward when Dean got into bed with him.

He felt himself shiver when the mattress dipped under Dean's weight. He wasn't sure how literally Dean would take his invitation to spoon, but in the next moment, Dean's arm slid across his back. His hand drifted, petting lazy circles over Sam's shoulder. A moment later, more pressure and dampness as Dean rested his head on Sam's upper back. Sam should have yelled at him for getting his shirt wet when he had been so careful with the towel himself, but he didn't want to discourage the touching even if Dean did still have wet hair. 

"Nice," he whispered as Dean settled into place, half on top of him.

"Mm, hmm," Dean agreed.

Sam felt a twinge of arousal, but he did his best to reassure himself that it was okay. He wasn't a weirdo. Dean knew how he felt. There was nothing to feel guilty about. And as long as he continued to remind himself that nothing more was going to happen, it needn't become anything more than a twinge. 

It was _enough_ to love and be loved. It was enough, _more than enough_ , to leisurely cuddle like this. They could share physical affection _without_ it automatically translating to _sexual_ affection.

"Sam?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can I touch your butt?"

 _Oh, my God, Dean, stop it with the mixed signals already! Make up your mind! Stop yanking me around!_ is what he should have said. The words that came out of his mouth were, "Yeah. Absolutely."

The hand that had been tracing lazy circles on his right shoulder blade moved down to trace circles over his right butt cheek through his thin boxers. Sam's mouth watered. His dick hardened. His heart thudded. 

"Does this bother you?" Dean asked.

 _Does it hot-and-bother me? Hell yes._ "No, I'm fine. I'm good. This is good."

"You just seem tense," Dean observed.

Sam made a heroic effort to unclench his backside.

"That's better," Dean muttered.

And, oh God, it was. Instead of just petting the surface, Dean started fondling and kneading Sam's ass, sometimes alternating with the other side, but mainly focusing on the buttock where he had the best leverage. Sam was salivating into his towel, could feel pre-ejaculate welling forth from his dick, and it occurred to him that he was kind of drooling at both ends. He shuddered and arched his back.

"Dean," he gasped, "have you changed your mind about having sex tonight?"

The kneading immediately stopped and Dean's hand slid to the relatively chaste zone of Sam's lower back. "I… it's just… I don't think… I can't…"

"That's fine. I was just checking. So, if you'll excuse me, I need to go jerk off now."

Dean cleared his throat. "That's fair."

He could have, should have just gotten out of bed and walked around it, but he was kind of frantic and also Dean was a jackass who deserved it, so he just rolled right over Dean on his way to the bathroom.

He slammed the door behind him and scrambled to get his boxers down. No need for anything fancy. He just dropped to his knees and started jerking it right there on the bathroom floor. He usually conjured up elaborate fantasies in his head when he masturbated—the more unrealistic the scenario, the easier to lose himself in the sensations—but this time he didn't have to think about anything at all. He could still feel Dean's hands on him like some weird tactile afterimage.

He shot his load on the tile floor and knelt there shuddering a moment more before he got up and washed himself off. He gulped handfuls of water straight from the tap and then took a long, zen piss. He looked back at the globs of semen on the floor. It would serve him right if he left the mess for Dean to clean up, because that was _totally_ Dean's fault, but even Sam wasn't that disgusting, so he grabbed a used washcloth from the shower rail and wiped up the floor, rinsing it out carefully with cold water. Despite everything, he retained a certain level of embarrassment about housekeeping finding evidence of his splooge.

When Sam was fourteen, Dad had shown up at Bobby's in a hurry to get moving and snapped at Sam _Why aren't you wearing shoes?_ and the honest answer was because it was summer and Sam hadn't planned to do anything but lie around the house reading anyway—but Bobby announced dryly _Because the boy ain't got a sock left he hasn't jizzed in._

Dean fell off his chair laughing while Dad just stood there shaking his head.

 _I swear, John, that one's even more disgusting than Dean. At least the tall one_ —and the tall one still meant Dean back then— _cleans up after himself._

And between waves of laughter, Dean choked out, _I keep leaving boxes of Kleenex for him everywhere. He just won't take the hint._

Sam had been genuinely shocked that anyone knew. And he had _not_ jizzed in _every_ sock he owned.

A week later, they were on the road when Dad got a call on his old brick of a mobile phone. Even from the backseat, Sam could hear Bobby's voice yell out _I FOUND ANOTHER ONE OF HIS DAMNED SOCKS!_

Dean turned to look at him, his face a mixture of revulsion and amusement.

Dad threw down the phone. His shoulders shook in rage and, when he pulled over at the next turnout, Sam braced himself for a lecture or worse. Instead, Dad hunched over the steering wheel, shaking even more, and it took Sam a moment to realize that Dad was laughing.

Laughter built to audible giggles. Giggles. Dad giggled.

Even as Sam's cheeks burned with shame, it was kind of worth it to hear Dad giggling. When Dad finally pulled himself together and turned around, he had _tears_ in his eyes from the laughter. _Son, I know you're fourteen, but you've got to clean up after yourself._ Turning to his eldest, he began, _Dean—_

 _I've talked to him already! And I leave Kleenex for him everywhere!_ and for emphasis, Dean grabbed a travel pack of tissue out of the glove compartment and threw it at Sam's head.

Dad giggled again, took a deep breath, and then told Sam in a calm but firm voice, _You're doing all the laundry from now on. No arguments._

And Sam wasn't going to argue, because as much as he wanted to defend himself and shout that he hadn't jizzed in a single sock since Bobby let on that they all _knew_ and it was totally unfair to blame him for a sock he lost over a week ago and he'd been really careful to use tissue every time… except… except for that one time when there wasn't any tissue handy and he'd wiped up with one of Dean's shirts instead, but he was absolutely planning to wash the shirt himself before Dean found out, except… he'd really just shoved it to the bottom of his duffel of dirty laundry and forgotten about it until Dad mentioned laundry.

So Sam just silently thanked his guardian angel, assuming guardian angels bothered with that sort of thing, and meekly said, _Yes, sir_.

He didn't know how Dean found out about the shirt because he'd washed it by then, but two weeks later Dean grabbed Sam's favorite hoodie and threw it on the top of a pile of dirty laundry and then whipped out his dick right there and peed on it. _Do not think for one second that we are even close to being even_ , he said as he tucked it back away.

Sam snickered at the memory. "Oh, my God, we have always been messed up," he muttered to himself.

When he returned from the bathroom, Dean was pretending to be asleep. Again it would have been just as easy to walk around, but he opted to crawl over Dean to get to his side of the bed. Dean huffed and shot him a cranky look.

"I'm sorry, did I disturb you?" Sam asked with feigned innocence, punctuating it with a gentle slap on Dean's ass.

"I'm sorry about earlier," Dean said. He sounded so genuinely contrite that Sam knew it was time to stop joking.

"It's okay. It was fun. It was really a lot of fun. Like a lot. Anytime you want to do that again, I'm there for it. Just, y'know, not in public or when there isn't time to take care of things after, because, that's obviously one of my buttons."

Dean nodded, whispered "Good night," and turned into his pillow. He didn't even make a _butt button_ joke.

There were two different categories of _butt stuff_ and the first time young Sam heard the term, he naively pictured two people rubbing bare bottoms, which—comical or not—still seemed like it might be fun.

He was well into his late teens before he realized that anal sex was not just a joke. He'd grown up with the phrase _You can take that X and shove it up your ass_ with X being all manner of anatomically impossible or at least improbable things. Badges, warrants, jumbo jets, minivans. He'd understood it was all just a metaphor. He'd mistakenly thought that fingers and dicks were also on the metaphorical list of things that didn't really go up inside anyone's ass.

When he'd figured out the truth—when he laughed at the wrong thing, and Dad had tersely explained that prison shower jokes were not actually _that_ funny, especially when they were visiting with an actual ex-con friend and nevermind if the ex-con had been the one to tell the joke in the first place—Sam had assumed it was the sort of thing people did when there weren't other options. Prisoners and sailors stranded on a desert island desperate for a faux vagina or gay guys with some inexplicable revulsion to the real thing.

He was in college before he encountered a straight guy openly talking about the joys of butt stuff. Kyle was bemoaning the fact that he hadn't been able to talk his girlfriend into anal yet. And when Sam asked why he'd even want to, Jonah and Mike joined in, seeming shocked that Sam hadn't tried it. (They would have been even more shocked if Sam had admitted that he hadn't tried anything beyond standard missionary position at that point, not out of prudishness, but because he hadn't quite figured out how many other options there were yet.)

Sam had been squeamish about the whole _But that's where the poop comes out_ idea. Jonah insisted that it wasn't any grosser than vag juice and Mike had suggested that Jonah was gay if he thought vaginas were grosser than poop holes. Kyle seemed mainly hung up on the symbolism of one last untouched frontier. Jonah said the tighter hole felt better. When Sam had asked, _Okay, but what does the girl get out of it?_ , Kyle had said unironically, _She gets to make me happy_. Mike admitted that he wasn't sure it was any good for girls, but guys could totally get off from having their prostates stroked by a dick, or, y'know, at least that was what he'd heard from, y'know, other people.

By the end of the semester, Kyle's girlfriend had broken up with him, Jonah and Mike were a couple, and Sam never once worked up the nerve to ask Jess if she wanted to try butt stuff.

Ruby had actually been Sam's first real foray into adventurous sex. There was something very freeing about sex with a demon. He never had to worry about shocking or offending her. He didn't have to worry about hurting her by getting too rough. She had the strength to do things no human woman could and she wasn't shy about suggesting things that Sam had never tried before or, occasionally, even heard of. He didn't want to miss Ruby. She was evil. She betrayed him. She tricked him. That whole Lucifer mess wouldn't have happened if he'd never trusted Ruby. But… The sex had been pretty awesome.

He rolled over and snuggled up to Dean—who might have actually fallen asleep, but Sam would have bet money was just faking it again—and decided that snuggling was even more awesome, even if the sex never happened. He'd sown his wild oats when he was younger and he was perfectly okay with that part of his life being behind him. Being able to hold Dean like this was the important part. It was enough.

He just needed to make sure he stayed stocked up on Kleenex.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially already the longest story I've ever written and we're only halfway there.


	11. Mitten Socks

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam stretched out on the all-too-empty bed and frowned. "Dean?"

"Right here, Princess." 

In his boxers, Princess stirred. "You've created a monster you know."

Sam started to sit up, but only managed as far as propping himself up on his elbows.

Dean was standing at the kitchen counter, peeling what had to be their last orange. He was still in his sleep gear, a plain T-shirt and a baggy pair of blue plaid boxers that looked familiar enough that Sam suspected they'd been his a few years ago before wandering into the wrong laundry bag.

"Come back to bed," Sam purred. He didn't quite expect it to work, but it was worth a try.

Dean glanced up from his orange, looked directly at the tent forming in the sheet over Sam's dick, _licked his lips_ , cleared his throat, and said, "So we still have one frozen pizza left, plus an entire box of crunchy fiber twigs."

"Just because it's breakfast cereal doesn't mean it has to be coated in sugar and contain a decoder ring."

"Whatever. It's all yours. I'm favoring the pizza for breakfast myself. Unless you want to go out?"

"What I want," Sam said, trying his seductive voice again, "is for you to come over here."

Dean dropped his eyes and pretended that it took all his concentration to peel the orange, which appeared to already be peeled. He was just picking away strings of pith.

"Is that the last orange?" Sam asked, trying another tactic. "You weren't even going to share?"

Dean smirked at him and cocked an eyebrow, letting him know how transparent Dean found him. Yet he walked over to Sam anyway. "You missed the perfect opportunity for a pun," he said as he held out a slice inches from Sam's mouth. "Orange'ya glad I'm willing to share?"

The joke didn't deserve a laugh, but Sam laughed anyway. He leaned forward and took the orange slice in his mouth, blatantly licking Dean's fingers as he did so.

He expected Dean to tell him to knock it off or to walk away or to tell another bad joke.

Dean offered him another piece of orange. 

Sam quickly swallowed the piece he was chewing and licked out at the second one, or rather at Dean's fingers, the orange slice almost ignored. Dean let him suck his ring finger all the way into his mouth. The fruit between Dean's pointer finger and thumb trembled noticeably as Sam attempted to demonstrate his oral skills. Just when he thought he'd made his point, Dean unceremoniously stuffed the orange slice in his mouth and pulled away.

Dean pulled apart another orange slice and asked almost shyly, "Do you want more?"

Sam lay back on his pillow, resettled himself, and slowly—to avoid spooking Dean—reached out, gently stroking the front of Dean's boxers with the back of his hand. "Oh, I want more all right."

Dean was definitely hard. Also, those totally _were_ his boxers. He still had the matching pair in red.

"This is mine, you know," Sam said.

Dean shuddered and nodded, his head continuing to vibrate like a bobble-head. If Dean never realized that Sam meant the boxers, it didn't matter because they were no longer talking about his underpants anyway.

"Come to bed," Sam repeated.

Dean seemed to snap out of it and handed Sam what was left of the orange without any flirtation. "You should eat. If you're not interested in the crunchy fiber twigs, we should go out. You could get an omelet full of vegetables and crap."

Sam gave up on subtle seduction. "Dean, just get your ass in this bed."

"Make me."

Sam took the challenge literally and lunged. He had Dean flipped on his back in the middle of the bed in under a second. He leaned in and growled in Dean's ear, "We are going to stay here all day. No sightseeing. No restaurants. No errands. No excuses."

Sam gently but firmly rubbed their bodies together, stomach to stomach, dick to dick. Dean was right there with him, writhing back in response. He released his grip on Dean so he could cup his face, kissing those gorgeous lips. 

Dean twisted away and started to stutter something about a breakfast special down the street. Sam grabbed him and shoved him back onto the bed, pinning Dean's arms above his head. He was about to follow up by demanding to know what the hell Dean's problem was, but before he could say a word, Dean bucked and moaned, and whispered, "God, yes."

Which made no sense. Nothing Dean said or did made any sense. Wrestling by the campfire he was into it. Invited to share the backseat, he declined. Only got into fondling Sam after they agreed there would be no sex. Never made a move while sharing a bed all night, despite knowing that Sam would do anything he wanted. Declined a blatant proposition in favor of breakfast. But was ready and raring as long as Sam was pinning him to the bed. 

Oh! 

_Make me._

He adjusted his position for a better angle, putting nearly his full weight on Dean's arms. Even if Dean put up a fight, he wouldn't be able to buck Sam off of him. He studied Dean's face very carefully. "Dean. Give me one reason—just one—why I shouldn't fuck you senseless right now."

Dean's eyes widened, another shudder went through his body, he licked his lips and finally said, "I'm… I'm kind of… drawing a blank."

"All out of excuses?" Sam asked again.

Dean didn't answer, but instead closed his eyes and tested Sam's hold on him. Sam didn't let his arms budge an inch. His hips, on the other hand, were now grinding wildly up against Sam. "I can't stop you," Dean said, a smile playing across his lips.

Sam leaned in and ran his teeth along Dean's neck, never really biting, but making it clear that he could if he wanted to. Dean moaned again.

Sam let go and sat up, cross-legged on the bed. "I have a hypothesis."

Dean looked completely befuddled at the shift. He sat up and tugged the sheet over his groin and glanced nervously around as if calculating escape routes and defensive tactics.

"So that was the initial experiment with what they call 'promising results' so we move to phase two. Give me one reason why you shouldn't fuck me senseless right now."

Dean shook his head and stuttered out an incomprehensible mix of apologies and excuses. "I… can't… shouldn't… sorry… " 

"So before we move to the full trial," Sam said, "we begin with the postulate that you are a dumbass."

Dean frowned.

"A dumbass who seems convinced that because of a four-year age difference, you are the boss of me forever. It's partially my fault because I've let you get away with that. I've let you pretend that we live in some Arthurian fantasy where the eldest son inherits the castle and titles along with the magic sword and the Impala's car keys, and I am somehow forever your ward. So, what's the deal? You've now convinced yourself that you're some sort of villainous child molester if you take the lead and ask for what you want?"

Dean somehow managed to find the remains of the orange, now slightly squished, and stared at the fruit in his hand rather than look Sam in the eye.

"I am not a child anymore, Dean. I'm not a teenager. Hell, I don't even count as a 'young adult' anymore. I'm closer to thirty-five than twenty-five. I am a grown man who knows his own mind, and I disobey you _all the damned time_ if you haven't noticed. You're not taking advantage of me. Not in any sense of the phrase."

Dean looked up, his eyes shiny, no trace of arousal left on his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I… I don't know how to get past this. I _know_ you're a grown man—a gorgeous, sexy grown man for that matter. But… you'll always be my little Sammy and I'm supposed to _protect_ you from creeps like me and… I don't know how to get past it."

"Maybe I do," Sam said. He hesitated for a moment, almost chickening out. This wasn't quite how he envisioned their first time. "Would you like me to tie you up?"

Dean froze. He wasn't fidgeting or making excuses or eyeing the door, so it counted as progress.

Sam lowered his voice, both in volume and register. "Would you like me to _make you_? You're definitely not the molester if little brother is the one molesting _you_. Would you like that?"

Dean nodded and breathed out a nearly inaudible, "Yeah." 

They had a solid collection of ropes in the car, but he hoped they might have something workable closer at hand. He climbed out of bed and rifled through his bag because he thought he might have… yes. He grabbed a zip tie and a pair of socks out of the bag.

It would have been better with proper rope or handcuffs and a slotted headboard to tie him to, but improvising was kind of what they did, so this would work.

Dean didn't resist, but he seemed unimpressed when Sam slid the socks over his hands. "Mitten socks?"

Sam zip-tied Dean's wrists together over the socks. "Double duty. Protects your wrists from chafing and blocks your fingers from trying to work the bindings loose."

"This is stupid," Dean said and he had a point. It looked kind of ridiculous. If he had a chance at a do-over, Sam would have gone with plain white socks instead of argyle. Too late.

"If it's stupid and it works, it's not stupid," Sam insisted. The headboard was one solid piece of wood with no convenient slats or rails. "I don't have anything to tie you _to_ so you're just going to have to do what I tell you and hold still, hands above your head. Can you do that?"

Sam felt a thrill as Dean obediently settled back on the bed, bound hands above his head.

"Do you have anything we can use as lube?" Sam asked. He had various lotions that would work, but it would be best if they had something that Dean for sure wasn't allergic to. One person's favorite massage oil might be the next person's itchy rash.

"My bag," Dean said without hesitation. "Under the laundry, there's a small paper bag."

He dug through Dean's luggage and found it. He was expecting Dean had something that could be used _as_ lube, but the bag contained actual sexual lubricant. And a receipt. The timestamp meant that when Sam was waiting for the pizza, Dean had stepped out and bought lube. Immediately after Sam had stalked off in a snit about not getting sex.

Great. Now Sam was being neurotic too.

Sam took a deep breath and walked back to the bed with the lube. He didn't specifically bring up the receipt or the timestamp on it, but Dean was probably smart enough to work out that he'd noticed.

"You're not just agreeing to this for my sake, right?" Sam asked. "I don't want to think I manipulated you into this. That whole 'taking advantage' thing works both ways."

"Less talking, more fucking."

"You bought lube, but no condoms?"

"I'm clean," Dean said, impatiently. The argyle socks dipped and weaved as he talked with his hands. "Get on with it."

Sam crawled onto the bed and hovered over Dean just out of his reach.

"Would you like me to kiss you?" Sam asked. He had a lot of fantasies that involved Dean being a more active participant, but if it was all he could get, he'd take Dean tied up and begging for it. A little teasing seemed like a good start.

But Dean looked a little uncomfortable and hesitated before answering, "Man, don't—don't _ask_ , just _take_. Anything. Everything."

It wasn't the way Sam wanted this to happen _at all_ , and yet his dick seemed totally on board with that plan. "Do you have, like, a, uh, safeword or anything?"

Dean shook his head and glared at him impatiently. Not a lot of people could pull off a look that condescending with argyle socks zip-tied over their hands.

"Your safeword is… artichoke," Sam decided.

"Whatever."

Sam stripped naked. He had wanted to build up to things with a little more nuance, but maybe if they just _got on with it_ , as Dean said, then _next time_ they could relax and take their time. Dean rewarded him by licking his lips and, oh, that was an idea. He'd meant to get Dean naked next, but those lips were very distracting.

He repositioned himself straddling Dean's head, hands braced against the headboard. Dean swallowed and stared wide-eyed at Sam's erection, but said nothing. Sam moved slowly enough to give Dean time to protest, but he didn't stop to ask permission again. He moved one hand to cover Dean's crossed wrists and, taking Dean at his word, shifted his weight, demonstrating his advantage. As before, Dean seemed to relax under Sam's weight as he released the burden of responsibility. 

With his free hand, Sam guided his erection to Dean's lips. He was in full control and yet he still felt a little shock ripple through him when Dean actually opened his mouth and sucked him in.

Dean was sucking his dick. 

_Dean_ was sucking his _dick_.

It wasn't possible and he was genuinely afraid that there was some catch, some gotcha. He was hallucinating or hypnotized or teleported to some weird alternate universe where his brother was incredibly skilled at cocksucking.

Or if not incredibly skilled at least incredibly enthusiastic. Skill would come with practice. Sam was looking forward to lots of practice.

Dean sucked him deeper and moaned and Sam nearly lost it right there. He had to pull out, but Dean's mouth just followed him, dragging out the moment before he finally freed himself, a string of pre-ejaculate obscenely clinging to Dean's mouth. Dean looked confused for half a second, but then his expression changed to smug as he realized how close Sam was to the edge.

Sam roughly tugged Dean's T-shirt over his head, leaving it tangled against his bound hands, and quickly worked his way down his brother's torso, nipping and licking as he went. He slipped Dean's boxers all the way off and flung them over his shoulder. Dean was more than accommodating, hips eagerly rocking up, spreading his legs wide the moment they were freed. Sam leaned in and gave Dean's dick one long lick up the full length, but he didn't have the self-control for much more. He wanted to spend a lifetime examining it, discovering exactly how Dean liked to be touched, but maybe next time.

For a frantic moment, he couldn't remember what he'd done with the lube and he pawed through the sheets looking for it.

"Up here, dumbass," Dean panted, tilting his jaw toward where the lube lay near his head.

Sam grabbed the lube and, while he was in the neighborhood, kissed Dean roughly. 

"You're welcome," Dean gasped as Sam released his mouth. They needed to try this sometime with a gag. That would be pretty much the only way to stop the smartass comments.

Sam sat up and fumbled with the lube. He finally got a handful to slick up with and stroked himself. 

"Oh, that's it, sweetheart," Dean murmured. 

So maybe Sam was glad he hadn't gagged him after all. That voice alone might drive him over the edge.

He didn't waste any more time. He slipped a hand between Dean's legs and slid one finger all the way in. 

"More!" Dean moaned.

He pulled his finger out, re-lubed, and went back in with two. There was a bit more resistance, but Dean wriggled his hips and Sam's fingers slipped inside without difficulty.

Dean made an inarticulate, but highly encouraging, noise. Sam flexed his fingers, stretching Dean out. He was about to try for three when Beyoncé started singing again.

_I found a way to let you in_  
_But, I never really had a doubt_  
_Standing in the light of your halo_  
_I got my angel now_

The ringtone just flitted in the background of Sam's awareness until he suddenly was able to put a name to it. Castiel was calling again and an irrational flare of jealousy came over Sam. He was done with fingers. He lined his dick up and glanced at Dean's face to make sure he still had the go ahead. Dean had turned to look at the ringing phone on the side table, but he snapped back to attention when he felt the head of Sam's penis nudging at him.

"You sure you don't want to answer that?" Sam asked in a husky growl.

Dean, the bastard, actually shrugged. "Show me what you got. Maybe the angel has a better offer."

Sam rocked his way inside Dean a bit more roughly than he'd initially planned, but Dean's erection didn't flag at all and he even began to mutter a string of encouragements. 

"You like that?" Sam grunted.

Dean wasn't doing a particularly good job of putting the words into anything like a coherent order, but the general tone seemed positive. "Fuck… hot… sweet… like silk… amazing… harder… God, yes!"

Beyoncé sang once more about her angel before giving up. Sam claimed it as a victory. He put his weight into each thrust and the headboard rhythmically hit the wall. Dean gasped out his name and another little thrill rolled down Sam's spine. 

"Louder," Sam growled. He wrapped one hand around Dean's penis and began jerking him off, the foreskin sliding strangely beneath his fingers. It was _almost_ like jerking himself off and yet so obviously not. 

"Wha… ?" Dean writhed on the bed beneath him, jaw completely slack.

"Louder! We don't have neighbors. With the elevator out, we have the whole damn floor to ourselves. I want you to come _screaming_ my name, because you are _mine_. Do you get that? _Mine!"_

It was probably kind of stupid and cliché, but Dean got it and maybe Dean got off on the idea too. Maybe Sam just finally hit the right spot the right number of times. A few seconds later, Dean blew his load while yelling, "Sammy! Oh, my Sammy!" and Sam followed right after him.

Sam essentially collapsed on top of Dean. He took a moment to catch his breath and then panted in Dean's ear one more time, "Mine."

"I'm all yours, you fucking weirdo," Dean agreed with a laugh.

He slipped out of Dean and settled onto his side where he could watch Dean's face as he caressed his chest and arms. "Good?"

"Awesome."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Dean smiled at him and then looked away like a blushing schoolgirl. It was as adorable as it was stupid. _Dude, I was just inside you, and you're still embarrassed to talk about it?_

"You think maybe next time we don't need these?" Sam asked, running a finger up Dean's arm and checking that the zip-tie wasn't too tight. He'd need to cut him loose soon, but he didn't quite have the energy to move yet.

"I think I'm good now," Dean agreed. He looked more than good. Dean looked completely blissed out.

"Do you think you might be ready to top next time?"

"I think I'm ready to do anything you want me to do," Dean said. His timid smile warred with his smug smirk.

Sam actually doubted that, but he remained optimistic that he could get Dean there one day. He just wasn't going to spook him with any of his wilder fantasies too soon.

He traced a finger along Dean's foreskin. "It's like one of those wrinkly dogs. What are those called?"

"Bitch."

"Jerk. Shar-Pei, that's what they're called. It's like a dick Shar-Pei."

"Are you insulting Little Dean? I think Princess is just jealous because she doesn't have a cool hoodie."

"Dude, it's not a she. You can call it Princess if you want, but it's not a she."

"Whatever. You suck at sweet talk. Shut up and kiss me."

Sam leaned in for a lazy kiss. Lazy kisses were the best kisses.

On the bedside table, Dean's phone started singing again, a country song this time, which was a little incongruous. Dean occasionally strayed into crossover Southern rock, particularly after a few beers, but this was real country, the old twangy stuff about lonesome whistles and freight trains. This wasn't Dean's jam at all. The singer was just bemoaning his life in prison when Dean's eyes snapped open and he yelled, "Cauliflower!"

"What?"

"Broccoli! Asparagus?!"

It finally clicked that Dean was trying to remember the safeword, but before Sam could even react, Dean shoved him aside and snapped the zip-ties like they were nothing. As he was fumbling with the socks, Sam really _listened_ to the ringtone.

_No-one could steer me right_  
_but Mama tried… Mama tried_  
_Mama tried to raise me better_  
_but her pleading I denied_  
_That leaves only me to blame_  
_'cause Mama tried._

_Oh._

Dean finally managed to answer the phone. "Mom?! Hi. Yeah, hi. Um. What? No, no, I'm fine. This isn't a bad time at all."

"Jesus," Sam muttered as Dean shot him a nervous smile.

"What?" Dean's face fell instantly. "Where? _Why?_ No. No, Mom, we don't need help with the case. We took care of… What? No, no. We'll meet you downstairs."

"Downstairs?!" Sam said sitting bolt upright. Mom was _downstairs_?

"The elevator is out of service and you don't need to go up all those stairs to… Really?"

There was a knock at the door. 

Dean swallowed and pulled the phone away from his ear slightly. "Hey, Sam, good news. They fixed the elevator."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	12. Kitty Cats

_"Hey, Sam, good news. They fixed the elevator."_

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

"Shit!" Sam sat upright, his heart suddenly racing.

"Yeah, okay, Mom," Dean said into the phone. "Just give us a minute."

There was another knock at the door, distinctly impatient.

"Tell Castiel to keep his shorts on," Dean said. "We'll just—we'll be right there. Give us a sex, a _sec_. Give us a second. Bye!"

Sam jumped out of the bed and flipped the covers back in place to hide the wet spot.

"Dude! To hell with making the bed! Put your clothes on!" Dean hissed.

Dean either didn't notice or failed to grasp the implications of the wet spot in the bed.

"You're covered in semen!" Sam whispered back. "You're even kind of… oozing a little where… um."

"Stall them!" Dean ordered and ran into the bathroom.

Sam grabbed clothing from his bag and threw it on, calling out, "Just a minute!" as he hopped into his jeans. He dislodged the spritzer of perfume as he was pulling things out of his bag and decided it was a good idea. He sprayed the room and the bed. What he really needed was an industrial-sized canister of Febreze, but the perfume would have to do.

He said a silent prayer to a God that he knew for a fact wasn't listening and then opened the door. Castiel and Mary Winchester stood in the hallway with oddly similar looks of confusion on their faces. In deference to the weather, Castiel had shed his trench coat. He still sported his navy pants and tie. The general effect was slightly wilted.

"Hi!" Sam said.

"Hi," Castiel and Mary repeated.

"What are you doing here?" Sam asked.

"You haven't answered your phone for several days," Castiel said. "Your mother was worried."

She bobbed her head to the side in an eerie echo of Dean's _whatever_ shrug and said, "I was going to say that you haven't answered your phone for several days and _Castiel_ was worried. _I_ thought we could help out."

"Help?"

"Help out with the case," Mary said.

"We wrapped the case up two or three days ago," Sam said, a little too rattled to keep the timeline straight in his head. "It was a cursed projector, almost like you said. We should have paid more attention when you suggested a cursed camera. You were pretty close."

"We heard news reports that another victim had died of mysterious causes," Castiel said, squinting around Sam into the hotel room.

"Can we come in?" Mary asked. "We've been driving for a day and a half with very few stops."

"Because we were worried," Castiel repeated. He looked annoyed. "You asked for my help with a containment spell and then we haven't heard from you since."

Sam felt a twinge of guilt. He could imagine Castiel and his mother driving night and day, frantic with worry while he and Dean had just been blowing off Castiel's calls because they felt like screwing around at an amusement park—and also literally screwing around.

"Sorry. Come in. Sorry. We should have called. We're not… I guess we're just not used to having you back, Mom. We should have called as soon as we finished the case, and then told you we weren't coming home right away."

"I would have liked to know you were okay is all," Mary said. "Even a text would have been nice."

"You have many options for communication available to you," Castiel said. It was bad enough that he'd forgotten his own mother, but Sam had zero excuses for not updating Castiel on the case. The angel's glare seemed to indicate he was having the same thought.

"So, you're staying in Florida?" Mary said, picking up Dean's boxers off the lamp where Sam had thrown them. She held them out between two fingers, giving the general impression that she disapproved, but not enough to take care of their laundry for them.

"Those aren't… I mean technically… sorry." Sam grabbed the offending underpants and tossed them at Dean's bag.

"Where is Dean?" Mary asked.

"He… uh." Sam waved at the bathroom. "Nature called."

On cue, the shower began running.

"… and I guess he decided to take a shower as long as he was in there."

Mary strolled over to the window leading to the balcony. "Hot tub. Nice."

Sam didn't think he could get any more embarrassed, but he could feel his ears heating up.

"It's okay," Mary said. "Relax, honey. You're acting like I'm going to start yelling at you because I caught you playing hooky. I don't mind if you take a day or two off after a hunt. Just, call next time. Let us know not to worry."

Castiel picked up the perfume and was sniffing at it suspiciously.

"This is for you, Mom," Sam said, taking the bottle out of Castiel's hand. "I picked it up at a souvenir shop. I thought you might like it."

"Thank you," Mary said.

"It's orange blossom," Sam added, which was dumb because it said that right on the label.

"It's nice," she said, sniffing it. After sniffing the air in general, she added, "Strong."

"So, uh, when Dean's out of the shower, maybe we could all go grab breakfast."

"It's nearly lunchtime," Mary said.

"Or lunch. Lunch works too."

Dean called out from the other room, "Uh, Sam, could you bring me my bag?"

Because, of course, Dean had run to the bathroom naked and didn't have any clothes. Sam grabbed the bag and passed it through the door. The brief glance at Dean's face showed he was stern and annoyed.

"We're, uh, thinking of going out for lunch," Sam said through the door. "Maybe that burger bar we liked near the beach?"

"Sounds great." His voice didn't sound all that enthusiastic, but when he exited the bathroom fully dressed, he had managed to plaster a big smile on his face. "Mom. Castiel." Mary got a hug and Castiel a nod of acknowledgment.

Sam grabbed his shoes. It would have been closer to sit on the edge of the bed to put them on, but, due to residual guilt and not wanting to draw their attention to the bed, he walked over to the sofa. While he was lacing up, Castiel wandered into Dean's orbit, as usual taking up position just a little too close, staring at Dean just a little too intently. It used to be funny. Now it made Sam's cheeks burn.

"A quick pit stop," Sam announced. Almost all the evidence of their sexual adventures had ended up on Dean, but he still wished he could take a shower to wash away his own share of semen and guilt. He settled for a piss and a wipe down with a washcloth.

They took their bags with them downstairs—the old habit of being ready to run if needed—even though Sam hoped very much to return. He and Dean shared a slightly hesitant look before stepping into the elevator, but it hummed smoothly all the way down to the lobby. The only uncomfortable part of the ride was the way Dean stood as far from Sam as the small space would allow.

As they passed the front desk, the clerk called out, "Mr. Allman!" They both turned. It was the nice clerk and he scurried over towards them rather than waiting for them to approach the counter. Sam felt his stomach drop. It was going to be terribly awkward if he mentioned their "honeymoon" in front of Mary.

It was worse.

"Mr. Allman," he began, not being clear about which of them he was addressing. "Sorry to bring this up. I just wanted to let you know that as the elevator is working again we will begin charging you for the rest of your stay _at the 30% discount_ as a thank you for your patience. However, as the elevator is working again, we've begun booking the adjacent suites and… ahem," he lowered his voice discreetly, but Mary and Castiel were still close enough to hear. "We've just had a complaint about… the noise."

Dean gave a nervous half-laugh and said, "We will be sure to keep the volume on the TV down to a reasonable level from now on."

"The TV," Sam repeated. "We'll turn down the TV."

The clerk smiled knowingly. "You do that. Have a good day."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

The burger bar was still awesome and even Castiel ate a burger without lecturing them on his non-humanity. They ended up at a booth this time, and Castiel slid in next to Dean as if that were expected, so Sam sat down next to Mary. Dean chattered away, filling them in on the gruesome details of Shark Lady and Blueberry Girl and the meticulous care they took with destroying the projector—which sounded way cooler in Dean's version, which never specifically mentioned where they had taken it. Even Sam, who had been there, could almost picture an isolated spot in the woods instead of the campsite a dozen feet off of a paved drive.

Dean finished his story and Mary nodded contemplatively, biting her lip in silence.

"What?" Dean asked.

"What?" Sam repeated, startled by the abrupt shift and unclear on what he'd missed.

"Nothing," Mary said, and Sam realized Dean was watching their mother's face across the table.

"What?" Dean repeated.

"I mean, I agree. It was probably the projector."

"Probably," Dean repeated with a sour expression. Dean had a habit of looking for criticism, but even Sam sensed a distinct lack of certainty in his mother's voice.

"So I was thinking that as long as we're here," Mary said in a bright tone as if she were changing the subject, but Sam had a feeling she really wasn't. "This vacation idea sounds pretty good. I can't even remember the last time I went to the beach. I rescued a selkie once, but that was New England and it was really cold, so it doesn't count. It would be nice to just hang out for a few days."

"And by a few days," Sam asked, before Dean could in a less diplomatic tone, "you mean until the next Saturday matinee so you can be sure we got this thing."

Mary shrugged.

"Mom—" Dean began.

"I'm sorry," she said, holding out her hands placatingly. "I'm sorry. You're right. You know, if I had wrapped up a case and you wanted to double-check me to make sure I'd done it right, I would probably be offended too. I need to have a little faith that my boys know what they're doing. I just… you were my little babies just yesterday, you know. And now look at you."

Mary reached up and rubbed a hand over Sam's stubble, resulting in a snort of laughter from Dean. Sam leaned away from Mary's touch and glared at Dean.

"I'll admit, I'm not at all sorry that I missed puberty though. You two must have been a living nightmare."

Castiel nodded sagely as if he'd been there, which left Sam with a very uncomfortable feeling about exactly how detailed the angel's briefing on Dean Winchester had actually been. He'd talked before about watching over Dean, but Sam had vaguely assumed that meant keeping tabs on him. Literally watching… Castiel probably was closer to Dean than his own brother.

Dean cleared his throat and stole a couple of Castiel's fries. "So," he asked with his mouthful, "how are _things_?" He rolled his eyes in Castiel's direction.

Mary sighed. " _Someone_ doesn't take hints."

Dean scoffed and grabbed more fries. "We could have told you that."

Sam must have put up a mental block because he had forgotten their conversation last week. He didn't know whether to be relieved that Castiel wasn't receptive to Mary's hints, or offended on her behalf, _or_ threatened that it meant he was still potentially a rival for Dean's affections. He was sitting closer to Dean than the booth really required as it was. So, all of the above, basically. Castiel squinted at him questioningly, seeming to understand he was under scrutiny if not why.

"So you haven't left town yet," a voice called from over his shoulder. Dean's expression froze, on guard and—if you knew what to look for in his eyes—slightly hostile. For some reason, perhaps because the case was fresh on his mind, Sam's first guess was that the man standing behind him was one of the detectives they'd clashed with earlier. Instead, it was the flirtatious blond from the last time they'd been there.

"Oh, hi," Sam said. He was blanking on the guy's name. Had he ever said his name? Dean had gotten his business card, but Sam didn't think Dean had bothered to read it. "You're a regular here, I take it?"

"My gym is just across the street," he said. "I'm probably being a bad example to my clients, but one of the advantages of working as a personal trainer is that I get to up my protein intake. And the burgers are even pretty healthy if you order them without a bun and don't get fries."

Dean rather pointedly stole another handful of fries off of Castiel's plate. Castiel, for his part, had picked up on Dean's hostility and was glaring at the trainer like a loyal guard dog.

Sam couldn't quite resist ruffling both of them. "Do you have visitor options for non-members? I could really use a workout."

Dean was one step away from having smoke come out his ears, which was really very satisfying. The guy was pretty skilled at reading body language as he seemed to give up on Dean and shifted his attention to Sam entirely. "Oh, absolutely. In fact, ask for me at the front desk, and I might just be able to get you in on a free pass."

"This is a little embarrassing," Sam said, "but I have to admit I don't remember your name."

"Kyle."

"Sam."

"Dean," Dean said, a bit more loudly than necessary. "This is our friend Castiel and our mother—"

"Sister," Sam corrected because it was a little hard to explain the lack of age difference to civilians.

"Mary. Sister Mother Mary. She's a nun." Dean gave Kyle a defiant smile.

At Sam's side, Mary stifled a giggle.

"A nun?" Kyle gave Mary a disbelieving once over. Sam didn't think most nuns these days even wore habits anymore so he wasn't sure what Kyle was using as a metric to determine her nun-ness.

Mary, for her part, set down her burger and dabbed her napkin daintily to her mouth.

"A Mother Superior even," Dean continued because there was no lie that Dean was not willing and able to complicate needlessly. "She's got her own convent. Head honcho of the whole place. Honcho? Honcha? Honchess?"

"We're a very small order in Ohio," Mary said demurely. "You've probably never heard of us."

"What brings you to Florida?"

"Vacation," she said with a slight shrug. "My boys… my brothers thought I needed to get away from the convent."

"Brothers like _monks_ or brothers like _brother_ brothers?"

Dean had an "M—" on his lips and was almost certainly about to unload a bunch of B.S. about vows of celibacy or something, but Castiel opted to be helpful by volunteering, "Sam, Dean, and Mary are biologically related."

"Oh! Oh, wow, sorry about the other day. I never would have suggested… if I'd known… although…" Kyle gave Dean an appraising look. "I could have sworn…"

Sam recalled the whispered proposition and Dean's little nod, which Kyle had clearly noticed as well.

Dean ignored him. "Yeah, all the stress of running the convent was taking its toll. We decided she just had to get away from all that."

"I didn't realize convent life was stressful," Kyle said. "I always imagined it was sort of like, I don't know, all prayer and meditation."

"All that prayer and meditation gets to you after awhile though, am I right?"

"Uh."

"She was starting to see things," Dean added in a stage whisper.

"Oh."

"I see angels," Mary said, giving Castiel a wink.

"Angels?" Kyle repeated. Something imperceptible shifted in his body language. They had collectively become the crazy people you hope don't sit next to you on the bus.

"Mmm-hmm," Mary murmured, resting her chin on her folded hands. "They're beautiful, but they don't take hints very well."

"I'm not sure I'd describe angels in general as beautiful," Castiel said.

"The one I'm looking at is," Mary said.

Dean winced and Castiel slowly tilted his head. It was just possible that a hint had finally gotten through.

"You see an angel now?" Kyle asked.

"Yep."

"Like with a halo and feathers and everything?"

"I've never seen any feathers," Mary said, "but, then again, I've never seen him naked."

"Sammy, please shoot me," Dean muttered. It was bad enough watching their mother flirt with Castiel, but they weren't even sitting directly across from each other, so Sam and Dean were caught in the kitty-corner crossfire.

"The feathers are not manifested in the earthly plane," Castiel said.

" _Can_ an angel's wings be manifested in the earthly plane?" Sam asked.

"Before my wings were burned it would have been possible, though they would have blinded anyone who saw them."

"So, anyway, good seeing you again. Gotta run. Ciao."

Sam pretended not to notice when Kyle palmed the business card he'd been about to hand him.

Dean let out a relieved sigh as Kyle walked away. "So, can we please get through the rest of lunch without talking about—"

"He suggested a threesome, didn't he?" Sam asked. 

Dean lifted a fist to his mouth and closed his eyes and also probably telepathically beamed death threats at Sam.

Mary laughed outright.

"The other day, when we met him at the bar, he whispered something that freaked you out." _And something else that turned you on._ "He suggested a threesome," Sam concluded.

"That was your fault for flirting with him!"

"So what? He was cute!"

Dean cleared his throat and rolled his eyes in the direction of their mother.

Sam huffed. "I believe I mentioned _recently_ and you _agreed with me_ that I'm a grown man who doesn't need Mommy and Daddy's permission for anything."

"Mom?" Dean turned to Mary for backup, but she just shrugged and finished her burger.

"I am a little disappointed," she said, grabbing one of Castiel's few remaining fries. "I would have expected you to have better taste. He was a little… smarmy."

"But cute," Sam said.

"Oh, hell yeah," Mary agreed.

Castiel, brow still furrowed in analytical concentration and half a beat out of sync with the conversation, asked, "You really believe I'm beautiful?"

Dean dropped his head into his hands.

"So much cuter than Kyle," Mary said.

"Really?" Castiel asked.

Sam wondered if Dean even realized that he nodded in agreement.

"Really," Mary said.

Castiel straightened up, adding several inches to his apparent height, and beamed. "Thank you."

"Oh, my God, Castiel, that is _not_ how you flirt," Dean muttered through his hands.

"Are we flirting?"

Mary nodded.

Dean groaned and twisted in his seat to face the angel. "When a woman compliments you like that you are supposed to compliment her back."

Castiel processed that for a moment and then told Mary, "You are also much cuter than Kyle." To the table at large, he asked, with genuine confusion, "Is flirting normally a family activity?"

"No!!" Sam and Dean both answered.

"That's it. I'm done. I'm out of here. Move!" Dean shoved Castiel out of the booth to make his escape. "I need to, uh, hit an ATM," he said, clearly making his excuse on the fly.

Sam stood but hesitated. Mary made shooing motions and said, "I got the check. We'll meet up later."

Sam followed after Dean, who was definitely not slowing his pace to allow him to catch up. Sam didn't want to break into a run; that felt too needy. He trailed him for nearly a block before his longer legs finally made up the difference.

"I think there was an ATM… " Dean said as soon as Sam was in earshot, waving vaguely east.

"That way," Sam added helpfully, pointing south back towards the hotel.

Dean nodded and turned down the sidewalk. "We should go back to the hotel and check out." 

"You're ready to head back to Kansas?" Sam asked. "Mom agreed she'd like to hang out for a few days. Maybe we could take her to the aquarium. Or we talked about a boat tour before?"

"Okay. Fine. _One_ more day. For _Mom_."

"Why are you suddenly mad at me?" Sam asked, having to walk faster to keep up with Dean's angry pace. He already regretted dressing in jeans. The slight breeze coming off the beach wasn't enough to mitigate the summer heat.

"I'm not mad at you," Dean said.

"You sound mad."

"I'm not mad _at you_."

And despite the sweat sticking his jeans to his legs, Sam felt a chill. He could not deal with Dean guilt-tripping himself now after he thought they'd finally worked things out.

"Dean, talk to me."

"I'm talking," Dean said. "We're talking right now. Words are coming out of my mouth. That's how talking works."

"Dean—"

Dean deflected and pointed ahead. "Check it out." 

Halfway down the sidewalk, Carl was putting flyers on car windshields.

"Yo, Carl!" Dean called. "Good to see the cops cut you loose."

"Oh, hey," Carl said. "Yeah. It was like hella spooky for a while there. I _think_ I finally convinced them that I can't run the projector and be murdering people at the same time. Somebody's gotta change the reels, you know. But, I don't know. They still gave me the whole 'Don't leave town' speech."

Sam picked up one of the [flyers](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/b1uemorpho/21390328/23691/23691_800.jpg). It was pretty much the same as the previous week's with the same smudges and misspellings, but the spot for the Sunday shows was conspicuously empty. 

"Today's matinee is _Young Frankenstein_?" Dean asked, reading over Sam's shoulder. "We totally have to go to that one."

"The theater's back open already?" Sam asked, surprised.

"Yup," Carl said, taking the flyer and tucking it under the wiper blade of the next car.

Sam couldn't quite think of how to ask about the projector without admitting they were the ones that stole it.

"The cops cleared the crime scene already?" Dean asked and when Carl nodded, he added, "And they're okay with the theater staying open after everything?"

"Oh, they insisted. They even hunted down a spare projector for us."

"Spare projector?" Dean asked innocently.

Carl snickered. "Yeah, when they had the crime scene 'secured' while they questioned Mr. Price and me, someone snuck in and stole the projector. Didn't even take any of the movies, just the old projector. How weird is that?"

"So weird," Dean agreed.

"They've got a sting planned for Saturday's matinee," Carl confided in a hushed voice.

"Are you showing _The Sting_?" Dean asked with a smile.

Carl stopped and stared at the flyer in his hand. "Aw, damn, that would have been perfect." He glanced at the long line of cars that he'd already stuck flyers to. "Too late now. I'm not re-doing this."

"So," Sam prompted, "sting?"

"They think that gal was poisoned, like a Russian spy or something, but the official story for the public is that she just had an allergic reaction. They don't want the serial killer to know they're on to him. This Saturday's matinee is gonna be filled with cops wearing body cams. If we're lucky, they actually catch the guy." Carl did not sound optimistic.

"And if, instead, a theater full of police spook the killer off?" Sam asked, pretty confident the _serial killer_ would be a no-show.

"Then I think Mr. Price goes back to being their prime suspect because his whole alibi is pretty much just jerking it to Internet porn."

Dean bobbed his head in sympathy. "That kinda sucks."

"Anyway, letting the projector get stolen almost blew their plan. We couldn't show any films at all yesterday. But they pulled in a replacement from somewhere and we're good to go today."

Dean smiled at Sam and made wibbly eyes.

"So," Sam said. "I guess we'll be seeing you in a few hours at that _Young Frankenstein_ matinee."

Dean beamed.

Carl was working his way down the beach parking lot in the opposite direction as Sam and Dean so they parted there. The distraction left Dean in a noticeably better move, but he still wasn't talkative beyond banal comments about heat and humidity. Sam wanted desperately to ask about their new relationship, but asking _Are we okay?_ when he was nearly positive the answer was _Hell, no!_ didn't seem to be a good idea.

The weather and their poor clothing choices worked in Sam's favor though. By the time that Dean hit the ATM, they were both sweaty and miserable and it was Dean who suggested they go back to the hotel and change into clean clothes. Sam hoped that Dean would be more receptive to talking in private. Or even not talking. Not talking was fine. What Sam needed were some post-coital cuddles that he'd missed out on earlier and reassurances—be they verbal or non-verbal—that he and Dean were still on the same page.

They got their bags from the car and lumbered back inside. As always, the lobby air conditioning was a shock to Sam's system. How could people live here and not get sick all the time, constantly shifting between hot and cold several times a day?

Dean stopped at the front desk. "Hey there, Phillip." Sam hadn't even paid attention to the nice clerk's nametag, but it was just like Dean to pick up on personal details like that. He was like Charm in human form. "Our m—sister Mary is in town…" Dean caught Phillip's confused look and backtracked again. " _My_ sister, his sister- _in-law_ , obviously. She's in town with her… friend, and we need to get her a room. Two rooms? One room?"

Dean trailed off, looking a little confused. Should they get Castiel a separate room? Sam shrugged.

"You sister and her friend are joining you on your honeymoon?" Phillip asked.

"Oh, my God, family, right?" Dean laughed nervously. "You send them a postcard saying 'Wish you were here' and they think you mean it. Like, no one ever actually means that." 

Phillip shook his head and tapped at his computer keyboard. "Okay, so I've got one room right next to yours available."

"It doesn't have to be right next to us," Sam said just as Dean was saying, "Book it."

Phillip hesitated and looked between them for a consensus.

"I'm just thinking, you know, two rooms farther down the hall might be good," Sam said.

"I'm afraid that's the last room we have available on the top floor. As soon as the elevator was repaired this morning, we rebooked several guests into the executive suites as an apology for the inconvenience."

"Book it," Dean repeated. "And then we'll all be checking out tomorrow."

Sam didn't really agree with any of that, but he figured he'd already lost that battle. And so Dean booked the adjacent room in his own—or rather his pseudonym's—name and Phillip handed over the keycards.

The ride up in the elevator was smooth and uneventful and also dead quiet as Dean didn't seem to feel like talking and Sam couldn't figure out where to even begin.

On their floor, Dean made for the new adjacent room instead of their own. Sam supposed that it didn't hurt to check it out, though he didn't really see the point.

It was roughly the same as their own room, only lacking in the view. This room was at the end of the hallway and faced the neighboring building to the north. Sam was relieved that the shared wall matched up with their kitchen. (The noise complaint had to have come from the room on their other side.) And the balconies were around the corner from each other.

"Nice," Sam said, not really commenting on the room—the sofa in this suite was a brilliant orange that made their lime green one look tasteful by comparison—but feeling significantly less awkward about Mary and Castiel being next door.

"So you want this one or the beach view?" Dean asked.

"Uh…"

"Mom or Castiel?"

"What?" 

Dean rolled his eyes as if he thought Sam was being unnecessarily dense. "Mom and Castiel are _not_ sharing a bed. Look, you and Mom can have the better view while me and Cas—"

" _Castiel_ and I will take the ocean view," Sam said firmly, because while he really didn't want to picture the angel sharing a bed with his mother, he really, _really_ didn't want to picture the angel sharing a bed with his _brother_.

"Fine."

"Fine."

Dean stalked into the bathroom to change. Sam grumbled quietly and then proceeded to change clothes himself. This was not going the way he'd imagined it. If only they'd had a few more days to work out where they stood with each other before their mother had shown up. 

Without consulting each other, they both chose to change into their boardshorts and tropical shirts. Dean glanced at Sam when he exited the bathroom and muttered, "We look ridiculous," under his breath. Yet in the next moment, he got out his cellphone and gave Mary directions to the very same shop where they'd gotten their outfits.

"Come on," he said to Sam after he hung up. "If we hurry, we can make sure that Castiel looks stupider than we do."

Sam tossed his bag in the other hotel room, barely glancing in the door long enough to notice that the bedspread had been smoothed out, indicating housekeeping had been by. Relieved that it meant they'd be restocked on towels and toilet paper and clean sheets, Sam followed Dean to the elevator where he made his final last-ditch move.

Words weren't getting Sam anywhere, so he just shoved Dean against the side of the elevator and ducked down for a kiss, slipping one hand up the back of Dean's loose Hawaiian shirt. And Dean kissed back, which was a hell of a relief because Sam had half-expected the _It never happened_ speech. Nevertheless, in the next moment, Dean twisted away. 

His timing was perfect. A second later the doors opened and two elderly women stepped inside. They rode down to the lobby listening to the women discuss their afternoon plans which seemed to mainly involve shopping for souvenirs to take back to the grandchildren.

The women were a little slow shuffling out of the elevator, so Sam and Dean held the doors for them. Dean hovered back by the doors as the women slowly walked out of earshot.

"Dude," Dean said in a whisper. "How often do you need it? I just topped you up this morning. You should be good for a few days at least."

"Is this some kind of car analogy?" Sam asked, stepping close enough into Dean's personal space to make even an angel uncomfortable. Dean smelled like cocoa butter and Sam wondered if that was going to be a turn-on from here out. "Because I've been running on fumes so long, you didn't come _close_ to topping me up. In fact, you didn't do any _topping_ at all that I recall."

"Dude, not in public," Dean whispered and then stalked away. Sam sighed and followed him out the lobby doors.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Their mother did not waste time shopping. By the time they arrived, she had already changed. She wore a green-and-white tropical-pattern sarong wrapped around her waist over a yellow tank-style one piece. She was wearing practical boat shoes instead of sandals though and still carried herself with the general bearing of someone prepared to kick ass at a moment's notice.

Castiel, on the other hand, hadn't even shed his tie. He was standing in the corner of the shop looking at risque postcards with his typical befuddled expression. Mary looked exasperated. "He keeps saying he's 'fine' wearing what he is," she said.

Dean shook his head. "What did we already say about the hints?" He turned to Castiel and yelled, "Yo, dude, just because you're an angel doesn't mean your sweat doesn't stink!"

Sam glanced around to see if anyone caught the exchange. At Dean's volume, pretty much the entire store had, but no one seemed to think it meant anything unusual. They probably just assumed that _angel_ was Dean's pet name for his boyfriend or something. Sam should have felt reassured. He did not.

"Okay, so here's the plan," Dean announced, physically dragging Castiel towards the back of the shop where the men's swimwear was located. "I booked another hotel room for one more night, so if you guys are parked at a meter, we should move your car to the hotel lot. We've got time for a nice walk along the beach, maybe snow cones all around, then we'll head over to The Festival for their afternoon matinee of _Young Frankenstein_ because when people aren't turning into blueberries it seriously is a really cool theater. _You_ are going to buy Mom popcorn and Raisinettes, _because she likes you_ and that's what you do."

Sam offered Mary an apologetic grimace, but she seemed amused at how compliant Castiel was once Dean started giving orders. Sam had the feeling she was taking mental notes. 

"After the matinee," Dean continued without a pause, "I'm thinking boat tour. I saw a pamphlet back at the hotel for this place that has dinner cruises. So, what's the vote, rainbow or kitty cats?" He held up two pairs of swim trunks.

"Kitty cats," Sam and Mary both answered. 

They were objectively hideous by any standard, just a mishmash of overlapping cat faces. Mary got into the spirit of things and handed Castiel a white tank-top with a big yellow smiley face on it and a bright blue tropical shirt. The shirt was far too tasteful and Dean seemed on the verge of swapping it out or for a Hello Kitty shirt, but Mary announced, "This goes with your eyes," and neither Sam nor Dean had the heart to replace it with something uglier.

"And you'll both be wearing yellow," Sam said pointing to the smiley face, "so you'll kind of match."

Castiel smiled.

Dean frowned.

"There was only one room left with a hot tub, so you're going to have to bunk with Sam tonight," Dean said. He put slightly more emphasis on _with Sam_ than was strictly necessary. 

Sam honestly didn't know who was chaperoning whom by that point.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

They moved Mary's car and then walked along the beach. Dean was disappointed that the snow cone guy didn't have his cart out, but then they happened upon a stand near the pier selling soft-serve ice cream cones which placated him. They walked out to the end of the pier and back to kill time. Dean and Mary both tried to teach Castiel the proper way to eat an ice cream cone to keep it from dripping, which was just kind of obscene all around until Castiel gave up and just bit it and everyone winced.

Mary told stories about sea monsters—because, _of course,_ their mother had once spent a season on a fishing boat chasing a lead on a seaweed-covered Woman in White—and Dean countered with their story of the ghost ship and people drowning on dry land. Mary nodded politely as she listened, but then let slip that she knew more about Bela Talbot than Dean had mentioned. 

Dean frowned at her questioningly and she shrugged. "Sorry, I didn't mean to spoil your story, but I already read the book. There are still a lot of gaps before and after, but during the years covered in the Carver Edlund books I'm basically up to speed."

Dean hesitated and then asked, "You read _all_ the Carver Edlund books?" 

Mary patted Dean's arm and said, "Sweetie, I changed your diaper. It's okay. You have nothing to hide from me."

Dean shot Sam a helpless look over Mary's head—because Dean's earlier _full frontal_ escapades aside—they actually had a _lot_ to hide. And Sam suddenly had a worry or two of his own. "All the _published_ books?"

Mary shook her head. 

"They're out of print so I've had trouble tracking down the original books. It's been kind of hit or miss what I can find at libraries. The Internet has been more helpful with the unpublished works. I've read almost all of the additional unpublished 'Winchester Gospels' all the way through _Swan Song_ ," she said, making finger quotes in the air, the phrase suggesting that they had Castiel to blame for that. "And I just discovered a whole series of unpublished prequels or midquels actually. Interquels? Anyway, the stuff in between the first and last books. He apparently wrote a lot more books than his publishers printed."

Dean groaned. "No, you don't need to read those."

"We've done some pretty awful and embarrassing, but mostly awful things," Sam said. Did she already know about the demon blood or was that something to look forward to her discovering?

"For the record though, Dean had already told me all about Ruby and, well, I could guess about the things he hadn't mentioned." Mary tucked her hair behind her ear, but the breeze pulled it free almost immediately.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam repeated woodenly. Sam needed to finish reading those books. He always sort of meant to, but found them disorienting, especially when he ran across passages describing his own thoughts and feelings. Still, now that he knew the truth about Chuck, he really ought to go back and make a note of what details God thought were important enough to write down.

Mary swept her hair out of her face yet again—Sam had given up himself—and the muttered, "Should have grabbed a scrunchie."

"Sam could use one too," Dean said. "You would _rock_ a man-bun."

Sam couldn't tell if Dean was being sarcastic or sincere and so opted to ignore him.

"Maybe we could go somewhere less windy and sunny now?" Mary suggested.

They wandered over to the theater with time to spare. Mary cut Castiel off when he introduced himself to Krissy Anne as "Agent Bey—" and introduced herself as "Agent Harry". Dean warned Mary about the watered down daiquiris, but he'd barely started his explanation when she said, "Oh, the old straw full of rum trick?"

Mary shivered in the air conditioning, such a sudden contrast from the heat and sun outside, and she ended up buying a Festival hoodie. They came in a variety of bold neon colors and one in a delicate faded pink. She looked slightly embarrassed when she asked for the pink one. 

"The others are worse!" she said when Dean raised an eyebrow at her.

"Hey," Dean said with a shrug, "if that's how you want to waste your money, enjoy."

Sam had always attributed Dean's aversion to _girly_ things to John, but he was now wondering if that was yet one more thing he'd picked up from Mary. 

Nor was Sam fully immune to it. He was cold himself, but if Dean wasn't going to give in and _waste_ money on a hoodie, neither would he.

The theater was slightly more crowded than the week before. "Apparently," Krissy Anne said, "horrific deaths are good publicity. We've had a lot of people mention they didn't even know we were here until they saw a news story online."

Sam shook his head and ordered two jumbo popcorns, but _Agent Bey_ nudged him aside and insisted on paying for his _date's_ popcorn. "You've created a monster," Sam whispered to Dean, and the look on his face suggested that he agreed.

As they walked down the theater aisle, Dean redirected Sam to the row behind Castiel and Mary. He muttered something about everyone being able to sit in the center this way, but Sam didn't think anyone was fooled about his real motivation, namely keeping a watchful eye on their mother and the angel.

"This is weird," Sam whispered. "You're not supposed to go on a double-date with your mom."

Dean kicked his ankle. " _Not_ a double-date," he whispered back fiercely.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Boys!"

"Sorry, Mom," they both said.

Mary turned back around and settled into her seat. Sam thought she might be sitting in one of the death seats, but he couldn't see the upholstery from his angle to be sure. Castiel offered her popcorn and she took a large handful and Sam found himself mimicking her motions when Dean shoved their bucket of popcorn his way.

It was _so_ a double-date.

Once again, he didn't enjoy the film the way he expected he would. The old films kept drawing them in with the pull of nostalgia, yet each time he felt let down. Maybe they really weren't as good as he remembered. Maybe he'd grown too old and cynical to suspends his disbelief anymore. Maybe it was just never as good as the first time. Maybe the key to enjoying a film was watching it on a motel TV where he could lie back in bed, eating pizza and throwing wadded-up napkins at Dean's head, while Dean provided a running commentary. Or maybe he was just so tangled up in his own thoughts and anxieties that he could no longer just relax and enjoy a film without overthinking it.

From the opening credits, he was already on edge, weighed down by a mix of sadness and guilt. He tried to tell himself that Charlie would think the movie was funny and the Charlie that he conjured in his head pointed out that the Steins almost certainly didn't. 

As Castle Frankenstein appeared on screen a moment later, Dean leaned over and whispered smugly, "I bet the Stynes _hated_ this movie."

"Totally," he whispered back, somewhat comforted that he and Dean were on the same wavelength.

But the jokes never elicited more than a mild snicker from him and every time Marty Feldman broke the fourth wall it unnerved him a little. Somehow the horror parody was getting to him in a way a genuine horror movie never did. He kept thinking about what Carl had said about people dying _in_ the movie itself. (The fact that Carl had likely been stoned when he suggested it notwithstanding.) Sam kept mixing up the film with the original _Frankenstein_ and _Bride of Frankenstein_ and kept thinking he remembered what would happen next, each time anticipating the next horrible death instead of the actual slapstick twist onscreen.

Dean elbowed him every time there was a dirty joke as if he were afraid Sam wouldn't get it without the nudge in the ribs. Sam was torn between pointing out that he was not twelve and knew perfectly well what schwanzstucker meant versus pointing out that it wasn't even a real word. He held his tongue and did neither, but noted that there was some whispering in the row ahead. So maybe Castiel didn't know what a schwanzstucker was.

"I know what it was _supposed_ to mean," Castiel insisted later as they walked out of the theater. "It's just that _der Schwanz_ means tail, which would imply the opposite side of the body. The _correct_ word in German is _der Penis_."

"Der Schwanzstucker has more character," Mary said.

"I do not believe it is a valid word," Castiel insisted. "At any rate, the approximate meaning in German would be 'stucco tail' and I do not believe that that was what they meant."

"Do they even speak German in Transylvania?" Dean asked, possibly attempting to steer the subject away from penises.

"Actually, yes," Castiel answered. "Also Hungarian, but mainly Romanian. I don't believe it was historically accurate that no one spoke Romanian in the film."

"But it _was_ historically accurate when they electrocuted Peter Boyle back to life?" Mary asked with a grin. 

Proving he was not entirely devoid of a sense of humor, Castiel quipped, "You'd be surprised."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Completely against Sam's expectations, they ended up doing the dinner cruise. It sounded like the hokiest thing ever and he would have put money on Dean pulling a bait and switch where they would end up at some ocean-themed dive bar instead. Yet the boat turned out to be real and the food edible. Mary didn't seem to notice, or at least she did not comment, when they ordered water instead of beer. The waitress misunderstood and brought them sparkling water with lemon and lime _and_ orange wedges on the edge of the glasses.

Their fellow travelers tended toward their golden years, but there were a few young families as well. The Winchesters were not even close to the most tackily dressed. Jimmy Buffet music was playing over an archaic sound system. There was a strained effort to be jolly all around. Or maybe not all around. Maybe it was just Sam. Maybe he was the only one who felt like he was having to _try_ to be festive.

Their public story was evolving again. Dean tried introducing Mary as their sister again, but they slipped and called her Mom too many times for it to stick. Dean offered a variant backstory where their older sister raised them from such a young age that they called her Mom, but Mary nixed it.

"If I can pass for old enough to be the older sister that raised you, I can pass for being old enough to be your mother." 

The music was just loud enough and the senior citizens just deaf enough that they had stopped worrying about being overheard. Their only deference to the other tourists was to step away from the hubbub as soon as they'd finished eating. They spent the remainder of the evening leaning on the rail enjoying the view.

"Mom, you're like sixty," Dean said, sipping at tropically decorated water through a pink straw. "You don't look anywhere near sixty."

"Sixty-two this December. If you're looking for gift ideas, you can never go wrong with a box of chocolates. The point is that I don't have to be that old to be your mother." She adopted a rural twang and continued, " _We start young back home. Get them babies out while your hips still got a little spring to them._ "

"That's like prejudiced against hill people or something," Dean said. "That's not right."

"I think we should just go back to that cult idea from earlier," Sam said. "We call her Mom because she's our Supreme All-Mother."

Dean nodded in agreement. "I like it. It's simple. People don't ask questions when they think you're crazy."

"Ooh, does this mean you worship me?" Mary asked.

"No, we worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster," Dean said. "You're just our high priestess."

"Flying Spaghetti Monster?" she asked dryly, clearly unimpressed with Dean's originality.

"That's an actual thing," Dean insisted, waving at Sam. "Tell her."

"The Flying Spaghetti Monster is not itself an actual thing," Sam said because, in their line of work, you couldn't afford to not be clear about these things. "But Pastafarians are kind of a thing. Not a _real_ thing, more of a… protest thing. They started out as a sort of satirical commentary on organized religion, but I'm not sure everyone really gets the joke."

Castiel nodded. "There have been actual prayers."

"Angel Radio picks up prayers to the Flying Spaghetti Monster?" Sam asked.

"All prayers, yes."

"Pastafarians and Buddhists and Lutherans… they don't get like separate channels?" Dean asked.

"Petitioners rarely identify themselves by denomination when praying, and often prayers are not explicitly directed at a specific entity. Separate 'channels' would require otherwise and, subsequently, leave a majority of prayers unheard. For whatever reason, our Fa—" Castiel sighed wearily before continuing. "Chuck deemed it should be so. Despite his general hands-off approach, it was apparently important to him that angels _hear_ all prayers even if they chose not to answer most of them."

"But you can still tell?" Dean asked. "You can tell that actual people have seriously prayed to the Flying Spaghetti Monster?"

Castiel nodded.

"How many of them were _not_ stoned?"

Castiel tilted his head as if he were seriously doing the arithmetic. "There was an uptick in non-stoned prayers in 2015 when a video of a deep-sea creature that resembled this fanciful construct went viral. It was actually a siphonophore, a colonial animal made up of thousands of zooids although I acknowledge the resemblance was uncanny."

"Oh, I saw that," Dean said, brightening up. "It kind of looked like it had a giant di— ahem, sorry, Mom."

Mary shook her head in disbelief. "I know what a dick is. You don't think you were both virgin births do you?"

"There's also a regular spike every semester when anatomy students first encounter the human central nervous system and believe they are the first person to experience a profound revelation thereof," Castiel continued. "Most of those are, admittedly, chemically enhanced and the rest correspond to an increase of sleep-deprivation so… "

"Angels hear _every_ prayer?" Sam asked, a shiver running the full length of his longer-than-average central nervous system.

"It's mainly background noise," Castiel said. "Like a chorus of millions of voices singing millions of different songs. They almost cancel out until all you can hear is a hum. Yet within the chaos, patterns emerge, a new collective song if you will. I believe it is this overall pattern that Chuck wanted the angels to listen to. We are forced to remain at least that connected to the collective human psyche whether we wish to be or not."

"So, individual prayers are just sort of lost in the noise?" Sam asked hopefully.

"In most cases, yes. The majority of angels would block out the overall hum if they could as well," Castiel agreed. "You can get a specific angel's attention by invoking their name. And of course, if you are already the focus of an angel's attention, they would have no difficulty hearing your prayer."

Castiel looked Sam dead in the eye. He didn't wink. He didn't do anything other than maintain eye contact for several seconds longer than the situation called for. 

But it was enough. 

Castiel knew. 

Castiel knew because Sam freaking _told him himself_. 

About seven seconds later, Dean choked on his sparkling water. Sam figured Dean regretted a few _Oh God_ s on his part as well.

Mary looked questioningly between them. She wasn't sure what she'd missed, but she was clever enough to know that something was going on.

"Check out that sunset," Sam said, pointing to where the clouds were just starting to pick up an ethereal glow.

Her smile said she knew she was being deflected, but she allowed it to happen. Castiel watched them for slightly longer, but he finally joined Mary watching the sunset and began to lecture them all on the nature of light waves.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The siphonophore video that Castiel mentioned: <https://youtu.be/yREFw0ZZVPk>  
> Keep watching. The longer you watch, the weirder it gets.
> 
> (I've been re-linking images. Let me know if the flyers still aren't accessible: [flyer 1](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/b1uemorpho/21390328/23402/23402_800.jpg) [flyer 2](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/b1uemorpho/21390328/23691/23691_800.jpg) )


	13. I Was a Teenage Sheepsquatch

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam still hadn't quite gotten used to a wingless Castiel, and he kept expecting him to pop out the way he so often did. Even these days, Castiel tended to disappear in his sedan without saying goodbye or at least without saying goodbye _to Sam_ and, usually, Dean wasn't helpful in passing along a message more detailed than, _He had angel shit to do or something._ However, he and Mary had driven down in Mary's car and that left Castiel more or less stuck with them for the duration.

As they said goodnight to Mary and Dean in the hallway, Sam at least reassured himself that he wouldn't have to worry about Castiel wanting to lounge in the hot tub, but he wasn't sure if he should be volunteering to sleep on the couch. Castiel liked to imply he didn't need food or sleep, but Sam suspected he had to tap into his healing powers to make that work, which drained more important resources. Keeping the angel fed and rested seemed like a good idea all around.

"If you'd like the bed, Cas—"

Castiel ignored him and walked out onto the balcony.

Apparently, Dean and Mary had sufficiently talked up the hot tub.

Sam hesitated before following him out—horrible visions of a half-naked angel in his head—but Castiel was only standing there eyeing the tub with suspicion.

"What is the purpose of a hot tub?"

"It feels good?" Sam said, not sure if that counted. "It's relaxing."

Castiel opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off.

"If you're going to talk about hygiene or microbial counts, please don't."

"I was going to ask why hot water is considered relaxing, but now that you mention it—"

"Please don't," Sam repeated.

"Hot water is generally a metaphor for an unpleasant situation," Castiel said. It was a statement, but the question was in his eyebrows if not his voice.

"Hot tubs aren't _that_ hot. They really do help relax your muscles. Do you want to try?" Sam asked, rather hoping the answer would be no.

"I make you uncomfortable." It was another statement.

Sam tried to think of a way to deny it that didn't sound bad.

"You would rather be sharing a room with Dean," Castiel added.

Sam shrugged, not quite dishonest enough to lie more boldly than that.

"Is this because of your new sexual dynamic?"

"Cas, man, you can _not_ tell Mom about that. Okay?"

Castiel only frowned.

_"Okay?"_

Castiel finally nodded.

"I'm sorry to put you in this position. If I'd been thinking clearly I would have realized we couldn't keep this from you and then I, I guess I just broadcast it right at you. I'm sorry. We shouldn't—" Sam paused mid-apology and realized with horror that he meant it. _They shouldn't have._ "We crossed a line that we shouldn't have crossed and now you're on the spot for our secrets and Mom would never forgive us if she knew, but… we can't undo it and… I don't think we can go back to what we were before."

"Humans have such an odd view of their sexuality," Castiel said. "When you aren't bragging about it, you are ashamed of it. These both seem like unnecessary extremes."

"Do any of the other angels know?" Sam asked. "Was I praying... really loud?"

Castiel shook his head. "Even I likely would not have been able to pick up on such an idle prayer had I not been in such close physical proximity while simultaneously concerned about your safety. Although you may wish to make use of warding spells in the future. Dean's prayers are, if not specific in content, indeed rather _intense_ , 'loud' as you put it. And cupids, in particular, are prone to gossip. You probably don't want to attract their attention."

"Got it."

That was officially way more sharing than Sam was comfortable with and, after another moment of awkward silence, he stammered out, "I'm going to turn in" and fled the balcony.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Castiel may or may not have slept on the couch. For all Sam knew, he spent the entire night standing on the balcony being stubbornly angelic. When Dean woke Sam up by throwing a pillow at his head, Castiel was again—still?—out there.

As was their mother. 

Sam could hear her laughing. And splashing.

Sam got up and staggered after Dean who was just stepping out onto the balcony. He blinked at the sight of Dean climbing into a hot tub with Castiel and their mother. Dean and Castiel. And Mary. All of them wet and partially clothed. 

At least he hoped Castiel had clothes on. He was sunk low in the water, his nose just barely clearing the surface. If he hadn't been an angel, Sam would have worried he was in danger of drowning. He had an unreadable expression on his face—the half of his face that Sam could see—and his eyes swept back and forth between Dean and Mary.

It made Sam supremely nervous.

"Don't you have your own hot tub?" Sam asked Dean.

"Yeah," Dean said, "but it's on the side of the building and this creepy old man in the hotel next door kept staring down perving on us."

"There are bagels and juice in the kitchen," Mary said. "Get your strength up. Check out time is in a few hours and we have a new job."

"The best kind of job!" Dean added cheerfully.

"The kind that pays actual money," Mary said proudly.

"It's a Sheepsquatch!" Dean said.

"There's no such thing as a Sheepsquatch," Sam said automatically, still bleary and unable to process the conversation. 

Aside from White Thing sightings being unreliable, with many of them linked to recreational drug use, Sheepsquatch was just a stupid name. So technically, White Thing was a pretty stupid name too, but Sheepsquatch was definitely stupider. They'd had this argument at least five times over the years.

"It might actually be a Sheepsquatch," Mary said, unaware or uninterested in the brothers' naming debate. "It gouged grooves in a parked vehicle."

"A White Thing left physical evidence?" Sam asked.

"Sheepsquatch," Dean repeated.

"Up in Kanawha County," Mary said. "And we don't even have to catch it. We're being paid just to make sure it stays out of trouble for a week."

"Is there coffee?" Sam asked. "I think I need coffee before this is going to make sense."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

It still didn't make sense after coffee.

They were crossing the Florida-Georgia state line—leaving behind enough construction zones that he was deeply grateful they wouldn't have to drive back that way to get home—when Sam finally put his finger on the thing that was really confusing him the most.

"How does Mom even _know_ this guy?"

"How does she know _any_ of these people?" Dean countered. "She's got all these secret contacts that even Dad never knew about and…" 

Dean trailed off contemplatively and then jumped back into the conversation skipping right over any further thoughts about Mary's popularity.

"...and they're like barely even fazed that she's not dead. 'Hey, Mary, what's new?' 'Well, I'm not dead anymore and also I got a new haircut.' 'I like the haircut.' I mean, seriously?!"

Sam laughed. 

It was only a slight exaggeration. Asa Fox had dumped an entire bucket of holy water on her and Walt and Roy got drunk and stayed drunk for three straight days, but most hadn't reacted with much more than a hunterly shrug at her return from the dead.

Dean took the next curve slightly faster than Sam was comfortable with, which cut short his laughter.

"Dude, speed limits exist for a reason."

"I'm not speeding," Dean insisted, pointing to Mary's car in the distance. "I'm just keeping up."

"You're _both_ speeding, jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam slumped back into his seat sulkily. He hadn't had a proper breakfast, but Dean refused to stop for lunch until they hit Georgia, which hopefully meant _soon_. "Is this place with the magical pie coming up so we can actually eat sometime this year?"

Dean reached over with one hand and patted Sam's shoulder. It already felt a little awkward, but then Dean added, "I didn't mean like _bitch_ -bitch, you know. I was just..."

Did Dean really think Sam's feelings were so easily hurt? Really? "Eyes on the road. Hands on the wheel."

Dean huffed and straightened back up with both hands on the steering wheel and Sam instantly regretted snapping at him. 

"I'm not mad," Sam said. "I'm just hungry."

"Almost there. Promise." 

Dean let his hand stray off the wheel again, resting it once more on Sam's shoulder. Sam shifted on the seat, trying not to make it obvious that he was leaning into the touch, giving Dean better access. Dean rewarded him by combing his fingers through his hair.

Sam felt like he ought to tease Dean about the one-handed driving at this speed, but he didn't want to upset whatever tenuous balance they had going. 

It was all so messed up now. He felt like he was tiptoeing on eggshells. He wanted to beg Dean to pull over at the nearest motel so they could screw each other senseless—because _that_ he figured they could manage—but _their mother_ and _telepathic angel_ were in the car ahead of them.

Speaking of… 

"Castiel knows," he said and Dean's hand slipped away.

"You told him?"

"I didn't tell him. He just knows. He also suggested we put up warding next time before we… " He trailed off awkwardly, embarrassed by his own embarrassment. "Ahem, next time." 

What, was he twelve that he couldn't say the words _have sex_? 

"He said you pray loudly," he added just to share the discomfort.

"Son of a—" 

"He didn't seem to actually care, if that counts for anything. And I think that I convinced him that he can't tell Mom."

Dean went silent and before Sam could think of anything to say to make the situation better, Dean turned up the volume on the music. End of conversation.

They ended up at a diner more or less like every other diner. Sam didn't see what the big deal about this specific dinner was supposed to be, but he was hungry and the food was adequate so he didn't complain. 

Was it weird that he didn't complain? Sam was fighting the urge to second guess every thought and feeling now. He didn't want to be the submissive boyfriend who just did whatever Dean wanted in order to keep him happy, but he didn't want to be the nagging boyfriend who complained about everything either. 

He wanted to say whatever he felt like saying without overanalyzing every word. He wanted to just be brothers the way they always had been. Except he also wanted to get Dean very naked and sweaty and he was a little afraid that it ruled out the chance to ever go back to anything like _the way they always had been_.

"I'm not sure I understand the financial transaction," Castiel announced. "Since when do hunters charge money to fight evil?"

"It's not hunting," Mary said just as Dean said, "We're not hunting anything this time." And then with a shared exasperated sigh, they both said to each other, " _You_ explain it to him."

Sam decided to give it a shot since he wasn't sure he had the story straight himself and if he got anything wrong it would be the best way to get Dean and Mary to fill in the details.

"Okay, so this old friend of Mom's _used_ to be a hunter, but he's retired from hunting monsters and has gone into the relatively more peaceful world of private security." He looked at Mary for reassurance and she nodded.

"With the occasional side of bounty hunting or private detective work when things are slow, but mainly security," Mary agreed. "He's also earned a reputation for being able to deal with _strange_ situations, so that's how he got called in for this job."

"And the job is to just provide security for the duration of the wedding," Sam continued."The White Thing hasn't actually hurt anyone and the guy who's paying doesn't even really believe the legend so there's no real reason to go hunting for it. The bride is just spooked."

"But not spooked enough to have her wedding indoors during the day like a normal person," Dean muttered, stealing Sam's last french fry.

"A moonlit wedding in the woods sounds romantic," Mary said, "you know, if you _don't_ believe the local woods are haunted by a mysterious ram-beast."

"So, Bryan..."

"Byron," Mary corrected.

"Byron was just staffing this like a run of the mill security job until the other night when the White Thing was actually spotted near the site where the wedding will take place. Hence Byron reaching out to old hunter contacts so he can have more _experienced_ security for the event." Sam took a swig of coffee as he wrapped up his summary. "Did I cover everything?"

"White Thing is a stupid name," Dean said. "It's a Sheepsquatch."

"Ram-Man?" Mary suggested.

Dean grunted in the negative. "Sounds too much like you're saying 'ramen'. I can't take a noodle monster seriously."

"A noodle monster would be pretty gross," Sam said. "Like if the noodles are alive, I mean. It would be like a _worm_ monster."

"But what am I expected to _do_?" Castiel asked, looking no more clear after Sam's explanation.

"You wear a suit and look stern," Dean said. "You literally just have to be _you_."

"Right," Mary said. "If the thing shows itself, obviously we'll go after it. But this creature has never once been associated with a single death or disappearance so we're not really anticipating trouble. This is mainly about putting on a show for the guests so they feel safe."

"Security theater," Sam added. "Like the TSA."

Which just made things worse because they had to spend the next hour explaining the TSA to their mother which only led to fifty other tangents about things she'd missed over the last few decades.

Castiel declined to order dessert and instead played with the wooden IQ-tester pegboard. "I do not believe this is an accurate measure of intelligence," he said, but everyone ignored him.

Sam had to admit that the peach cobbler was excellent and Dean insisted on ordering both the cobbler _and_ pecan pie because _Georgia_ and he forced a couple bites of the pie on Sam.

"Yum, sugar," Sam said, not bothering to feign any enthusiasm.

"Sugar pie is the best pie," Mary said, alternating bites of pecan pie with her third cup of coffee. 

"Admit that you're drinking black coffee to cut the sickly sweet taste of all that sugar."

Mary took an extra large bite and mumbled, "You were adopted. We got you off of a traveling band of hippies. John traded a case of beer for you."

"A _whole_ case of beer?" Dean scoffed. "Man, Dad was robbed."

Sam shot Dean a meaningful scowl, because, really, it was not that funny, but it was Mary who responded.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. I shouldn't tease. You know I'm kidding, right?"

"Do you have any idea how much simpler my life would be if it were actually true?" Simpler perhaps, but Sam didn't find any relief in the idea. 

For just a moment a flicker of worry passed over Dean's face and then he brightened. "Naw, see, I remember when you got fat," he told Mary, earning a glare from the passing waitress. "Dad lied and said you ate a watermelon seed and you had a giant watermelon growing in your stomach, but you were the one who told me the truth."

Mary laughed and turned to Sam. "He was so worried. He thought the watermelon would keep growing until I exploded. So I sat him down and explained roughly how it worked and that he was going to have a little brother or little sister soon. He promptly ordered a brother. I was kind of hoping for a girl after that. It would have served him right to know he can't always get what he wants."

"And he's been ordering me around ever since."

"You like it," Dean said.

Mary choked on her coffee just as Sam kicked Dean under the table. Castiel looked up from his pegboard game and, for a horrible moment, Sam thought he was going to say something that would give it all away. 

But then as soon as she stopped choking, Mary started laughing, and Sam realized they could pass it off as a bad joke.

"Another round of coffee?" Dean said, trying to flag down the waitress who'd been giving him the cold shoulder since the _fat_ comment.

"Dude, no, I'm going to vibrate the whole way to West Virginia at this rate as it is."

And Dean gave him a _look_ and Sam just knew he had another risque comment queued up in his head that was in no way appropriate in front of their mother.

He nudged Dean's leg in warning, but the corner of Dean's mouth only quirked up even more.

"If the Sheepsquatch isn't a danger to anyone," Castiel said, because _of course,_ he was going to side with Dean, "why are we bothering?"

"Because we like money," Dean said. "Money is good."

"And credit card fraud is bad," Sam whispered, "and just occasionally we do remember that we're supposed to be the good guys."

Castiel continued to frown.

"Because Byron asked for a favor," Mary said, bypassing further explanation. "And it's always useful when a hunter owes you a favor."

"Sam said he was no longer a hunter," Castiel said.

"Once a hunter, always a hunter," Dean said.

"Take it from someone who's tried to walk away more than once," Sam agreed. "You never really quit."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Byron Hall had quit hunting before Sam and Dean were even born and no demon swarms, apocalypse, or fallen angels had lured him back. He had only heard vague rumors of the legendary Winchesters and had never connected them in his mind with Mary Campbell at all. He was silver-haired and rugged looking but advanced in years, relying on reputation and hired muscle for his business.

Dean was clearly unimpressed and Sam found himself resenting a hunter who had willingly sat out every major battle that humanity had fought in the last four decades. 

He cemented everyone's bad opinion, when he greeted Mary with a "Damn, girl, you are lookin' mighty fine for your age," an age he falsely assumed was close to his own and none of them wasted time trying to explain Mary's three and a half decade hiatus from getting older.

Byron ran his business out of his house in an upscale subdivision. It was faux-rustic, giving the impression of a log cabin while maintaining all the pretense of a McMansion. His neighbors on either side had gone with faux-Roman and faux-Tudor instead. It was a weird thing to hold against the guy, but the artificiality of it irritated Sam. 

Not that a guy who lived in a bunker in the ground really had any business criticizing someone else's taste in architecture. But still.

Byron sent them off with one of his underlings for a tour of the park where the wedding would be held. The employee, Greg, was a doughy baby-faced man with thinning hair who somehow looked simultaneously older and younger than the Winchester brothers. On the tour, Greg apologized for Byron being a bit "eccentric". 

"Sharp as a tack. Don't get that wrong. But he's as superstitious as they come. You know he wanted us to do some kind of pagan nonsense out in the woods to 'protect' the wedding?"

"So you didn't actually do the 'pagan nonsense'?" Dean asked.

Greg scoffed. "Don't worry. Byron asks you to do anything weird, just smile and nod. Day of, he's not gonna get more than twenty yards away from the buffet table or the bar."

Mary silently mouthed _sorry_ at the boys and then prompted Greg for details of this weird superstitious ritual that he'd neglected to perform. 

Castiel muttered, "On it," and stalked off to ensure the ward was actually in place for real before the upcoming festivities.

"So, the, uh, monster?" Sam prompted. "We were told someone saw it and that there was physical evidence?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "It was during a bachelor party. Witnesses, yes. Sober witnesses, no."

"Bachelor party?" Dean asked. "I thought the wedding wasn't until Friday?"

"It's bachelor _parties_ , plural, I guess," Greg said with a shrug. "It won't be the last one. As for that car getting scuffed up, my money's on someone ditching their designated driver. Nothing mystical about a dinged-up car."

Sam was inclined to agree, but he wasn't ready to write the case off so quickly and got the names of several witnesses as well as the location. When Castiel came back out of the woods indicating with a nod that he'd taken care of things, they got in their cars and headed to the hotel where Byron had booked them each their own room. According to Greg, the bride's father hadn't even blinked at the cost.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam settled into his room and began phase one of research. He started with the footage from the security cameras of the parking lot where the car had been damaged. The video was grainy and jerky because nobody ever bothered to update their security systems so he was left squinting at twenty-year-old technology, but Greg was definitely wrong. There had been no drunk fender bender.

A blurry white shape lumbered into the edge of the frame. Sam's first impression was that it looked like someone wearing a polar bear costume, but then it turned its head and he could just make out the shape of the horns.

There was a knock at the hotel door. Sam paused the video, checked his weapon, and then looked through the peephole. Dean was already knocking again when he opened the door.

"Hey, I was just about to call you," Sam said. "I found something. Check this out."

Sam turned back to the computer and restarted the video at the point where the white shape first appeared. Dean, meanwhile, walked by him and dropped his bag on the foot of the bed. Sam tried to appear annoyed that Dean was ignoring him, but his heart wasn't into the glower. Instead, a little thrill went down his spine. Dean was clearly not planning to use the separate room provided for him.

Sam paused the video yet again. "So, uh...?" He wasn't quite sure how to casually segue to the questions he wanted to ask. _Now? Later? Top? Bottom? Would Dean need to be tied up again? Should they try something new or spend time perfecting what worked last time?_

"Let me get the wards up and then we can talk," Dean said.

Dean pulled a small jar out of his bag and unscrewed the lid. It held a goopy gray paste, probably a mix of goofer dust and holy oil. Sam knew they had some leftover from another case where they'd had to double up on the mojo. He caught a whiff of something floral as Dean nudged by him, so Dean had obviously tweaked the formula a little. Dean traced out a pattern on the windows.

"Magical protection against the White Thing?" Sam asked, hoping that was _not_ what Dean was up to.

"Nope. Just nosy angels."

Dean winked at him and Sam felt himself go hard.

Sam peeled his shirt off, but Dean shook his head, "Patience, Sammy. I still have to do all the mirrors and if any of these pictures have glass in the frame, those too."

"Glass portals," Sam muttered to himself. He was vaguely familiar with the magic Dean was using and, short of the more bloody options, it was likely their best defense against magical prying eyes and ears, but... damn, it was going to take too long. "We need to figure out a way to... to _pre_ -ward a sleeping bag or a pup tent, so we have something we can set up quickly."

Dean paused. "Like a _fucking_ bag?" He tilted his head in further consideration. "Fuck tent?"

Sam shrugged. It sounded stupid, but he was ready to get naked and there were just too many damned glass picture frames in the hotel room. It didn't help that when Dean turned to look at him, his gaze lingered on Sam's bare chest and he licked his lips.

"Here," he said, holding out the jar. "Make yourself useful. You've got the pattern? You do the picture frames and I'll get the mirrors."

Sam closed his laptop. He had his priorities and, for once, the case wasn't that high on his list.

He finished marking sigils on all the glass, while Dean moved on to the bathroom. The windows and mirrors made sense—there was symbolism there going back millennia—but he thought they were being unnecessarily cautious with the picture frames. Still, better safe than sorry. The last thing they needed was a nosy cupid peeping at them through a cheap watercolor, which, now that he thought about it, actually seemed like the sort of thing a cupid might do.

As soon as he was done, he headed into the bathroom. His first intention was to wash his hands, but Dean was in the way, and reaching around Dean to get at the sink was fun in its own right. Instead of the more reasonable option of nudging Dean to the side, Sam pressed up against him and nuzzled his neck while fumbling for the faucet and soap with each arm on the other side of his brother.

"Stop that," Dean said, unable to keep the satisfied purr out of his voice, thus ruining the chastisement. "I'm not done."

"You're too slow," Sam said. "I already finished all the picture frames."

"Yeah, well, I had to do all the glass on the shower."

Sam glanced up at the reflection of the shower in the mirror. "What's with all these glass shower doors? The motels we normally stay in just have plastic shower curtains. Is this a new trend?"

"If by 'new' you mean twenty-years ago? Probably. Who knows what the new hotels are up to now. They could have finally invented sonic showers for all we know."

"I hope they never invent that. Showers without water don't sound like fun at all." Sam dragged a wet hand up under the front of Dean's shirt, deeply satisfied with the way he shivered against Sam's chest.

Dean's head lolled back on Sam's bare shoulder. "Done. Ready."

"Should we test it?" Sam asked, rocking his hips against Dean's ass.

Dean unbuttoned his jeans, but Sam grabbed his hand as he was getting the zipper all the way down.

"I mean test it _before_ we do anything we don't want broadcast on Angel Radio."

"Test?" Dean panted, clutching Sam's hand and pressing it to his crotch. His blood was most definitely not rushing toward his brain in that moment.

"Pray to Castiel. Ask if he can hear you." And since Dean wasn't being especially coherent, Sam added his own silent prayer. _Oh, Castiel, Angel of Our Lord Chuck, can you hear me, man? Hello?_

Dean shuddered as Sam ran one hand over his abdomen while rubbing the other more firmly on the growing bulge in his underpants. "Dude, you are _very_ distracting." He finally managed to choke out a very pragmatic, "Yo, Cas. Testing. Testing. Testing. Just making sure we've got the room prayer proof. Speak now or forever deal with the audio porn."

Which was more than good enough for Sam. He spun Dean around so that he was leaning on the counter and dropped to his knees, tugging Dean's jeans and shorts down as he went. The urge to rush was overwhelming, but he really, really wanted to take his time this go around.

"Waiting for an invitation?" Dean asked as he tugged off his own shirt.

 _Just admiring the view,_ Sam thought, but it felt too cliché to say aloud no matter how true it was. Dean was fully hard and Sam had the perfect angle to appreciate the whole package, including his beautiful flushed face towering above him. Dean kept licking his lips and Sam finally took pity and ran his tongue the length of Dean's dick. He had to sit back on his heels to get low enough to lick Dean's balls, but the comical yelp was totally worth the back strain.

They had made a tactical error in not getting Dean's boots off first, because that meant he couldn't get Dean's jeans all the way off, which meant he couldn't get his legs far enough apart for a proper exploration of the hinterlands. Of course, he still wasn't sure if Dean was actually into that or was just being accommodating last time, so maybe that was okay for now.

He lazily worked his tongue back up to the tip where the glans was poking out of the foreskin. He wasn't sure how sensitive the foreskin really was, but just for novelty's sake, he licked around it. That earned him a frustrated wriggle from Dean. "Dude, you are such a tease."

"Orgasm denial's not your thing?"

"Not, uh, not today."

Which, interestingly, was not a no, but Sam got the point. They'd already been denying themselves this for _years_. He firmly grabbed Dean's dick and gave it a few solid strokes. He licked his tongue under Dean's foreskin and, in response to Dean's encouraging moans, sucked down on the head.

Dean began running his fingers through Sam's hair and muttering a lot of nonsense about Sam being a _good boy_ and a bunch of other condescending crap that he was going to object to later, but which was kind of getting him off a little bit.

There was a loud knock at the door.

"Seriously?!" Dean gasped. "We have _got_ to talk to him about his timing."

Sam slurped off the end of Dean's dick and panted, "Why didn't it work? Are you sure you had the right ingredients?"

"Who cares?! Man, I'm _right there_!"

He totally was. Dean's balls were high and tight and his dick was leaking everywhere. 

"So to hell with him," Sam said. "His fault for not speaking up sooner."

Sam sucked Dean down again, taking him in as far as he could, and bobbing in his best porn-star rhythm.

"Oh, now _that's_ my Sammy," Dean growled.

There was another knock at the door, but Sam only redoubled his efforts. The idea that Castiel was getting an earful actually gave him a little thrill. _I'll show you 'more profound bond'._

"Just a minute!" Dean yelled towards the door.

If Dean could still form coherent sentences, Sam still wasn't doing it right, so he tried adjusting his angle and added more hand action, jacking Dean off for all he was worth. Dean came in his mouth with a full-body shudder.

He wanted to take the time to properly ease Dean through the afterglow, never mind that he hadn't had his turn yet, but, in the next moment, a voice that was definitely not Castiel's called out, "I have pizza!"

"Mom!" Dean gasped and scrambled to pull his pants up.

Sam slumped sideways onto the floor in defeat. He was a raw bundle of frustration, humiliation, fear of discovery, guilt, and—deep down where he didn't want to admit it was even there—anger. He reminded himself that he loved his mother. He absolutely loved her and would be eternally grateful for her safe return and yet… man, he wanted her to just go away and give him and Dean their space.

Dean stumbled as he pulled his shirt over his head while simultaneously trying to step over Sam, whacking Sam none too gently in the shin. Sam realized in horror that Dean was heading for the door. He was actually going to let Mary _in_ while Sam was still hard (though flagging) and shirtless. Spurred to action, he lept from the floor and raced Dean, elbowing him aside as needed. He dove for his shirt just as Dean got to the door.

Dean at least glanced over his shoulder to check that Sam had managed to get his shirt on before opening the door. Sam tugged nervously at the fabric to make sure the front covered his—now mostly imaginary—erection and nodded. Dean opened the door.

"Am I the best mother or what?" Mary asked, holding up two six packs stacked on top of two pizza cartons.

Sam glanced nervously at the greasy picture frames. The sigil markings were translucent, almost invisible except for the way the light reflected differently off of them. As long as Mary didn't look directly at any of them, she likely wouldn't notice. He hoped.

"You're the best Mom ever," Dean agreed.

"Best mom," Sam echoed weakly.

"Where's Cas?" Dean asked.

Mary rolled her eyes and shrugged. "Looking for monsters in the woods. I suppose we should have gone with him, but he didn't want to wait until after we'd eaten."

"We were just looking at the security footage," Sam said and then realized that his laptop wasn't even open. He quickly flipped it back open and re-started the video.

Again, the blurry white shape.

"Can you adjust the contrast any?" Dean suggested.

Sam tried, but it was no good. Lower contrast turned the whole video a murky gray and higher contrast turned the White Thing into an overexposed featureless glow.

They watched as the creature approached a two-door sports car and then bent to scratch at the side with its horns. It might have scuffed the paint job, but there was no damage visible to the car on the video. And then the creature reared up and began kicking the car.

"That's weird," Sam said. He really didn't know anything about White Thing behavior, so he wasn't sure what he expected, but this wasn't it.

"It's so deliberate," Mary said. "I had assumed it was either incidental damage as the creature passed by or perhaps a ramming instinct if it was a frontal attack, but this… it's just methodically vandalizing the car."

"And it never even touches any of the other cars," Sam said.

"So apparently Sheepsquatches don't like Corvettes," Dean said. "Who knew?"

"Whose car was that?" Mary asked, immediately nailing the important question.

"That would be the groom's car," Sam said.

"And now the wedding security job gets interesting," Dean said.

They ate the pizza and rewatched the video several times—high and low contrast, freezing frames and zooming in as needed.

"I thought Sheepsquatches were supposed to be taller than that," Dean said. "Watch it as it passes through those cars. That thing isn't even clearing six feet."

"Maybe it's a juvenile?" Sam suggested.

" _I Was a Teenage Sheepsquatch_?" Dean mused.

"I don't think anything is scheduled tomorrow during the day," Sam said. "So we can use that as a day for prep and research. There's apparently another bachelor party tomorrow night."

"And a bachelorette party according to the schedule they gave me," Mary added.

"Oh, please take Castiel to that," Dean said, smirking over his beer. "Tell them it's necessary security. And take pictures."

"Thursday is the wedding rehearsal and dinner," Sam continued. "That will be onsite so we need to be on alert, but it's during the day and daylight White Thing sightings are rare. So the highest risk is going to be the big night itself."

"There are two breakfasts Friday morning," Mary said. "The bride and her bridesmaids are going to a restaurant and then off to a day spa where they'll get ready for the wedding. Meanwhile, the groom and groomsmen are hitting up the brunch buffet here at the hotel. We should probably provide 'security' for both, but I'd particularly like to talk to the groom. Maybe you boys can get him alone for a moment at the party tomorrow night."

"It would be interesting to know if he has any theories about why the creature seems to have targeted his car," Sam said.

"We can handle that," Dean said. "Meanwhile, you'd probably be more welcome than us at ladies spa day."

Mary shrugged, "If I know anything about bridesmaids, that's not actually true."

Dean shot Sam an odd look that swept up and down his full height and which left Sam feeling rather exposed. Dean cleared his throat and then grabbed his phone. He dialed and, after a pause, he said, "Hey, man. How's the forest-stalking going?"

Dean had a tendency to pace when he talked on the phone and Sam couldn't keep his eyes from following him, impure thoughts bubbling back to the surface. It was still nearly incomprehensible to him that he'd had his mouth on that man less than an hour before. He very much wanted to get his mouth on him again. And his hands on him. And the rest of him on him. And none of those things were things he should be thinking with his mother sitting four feet away.

"Don't you have like angel radar or something?" Dean asked Castiel. "You can't track it at all?"

Mary pointed questioningly at the last slice of pizza and Sam nodded his okay. The woman had a surprising capacity for pizza. If he weren't still holding out hope for a little action later, he would have eaten far more himself. But he'd always preferred to avoid a full stomach before sex. It took some of the bounce out of his rhythm and increased the odds of an ill-timed fart. Dean was constitutionally incapable of letting even the mildest passing of wind go by without razzing Sam. 

So Mary ended up getting more of the pizza than she otherwise would have, not that Dean didn't eat his fair share. So maybe Dean wasn't thinking about an encore. He didn't figure Dean was old enough that his refractory period was any longer than the time that had already passed, but some dudes just weren't motivated once they'd already orgasmed. Maybe he wasn't even interested in doing more than crashing after dinner.

Sam shook himself out of it. He was doing the whiney self-doubt thing, which was absolutely not a turn-on for anybody. He was hot, damn it. He knew for a fact Dean thought he was hot and he and Dean were totally going at it tonight.

…If he could ever figure out how to get rid of their mother and once they were sure they didn't have any feathered eavesdroppers.

 _Oh, Angel Castiel, I pray that you can hear me._ No that wasn't true at all. _I pray that you cannot hear me, Castiel, but if you can, tell Dean._

He eyed Dean looking for a change of expression, but Dean was just rolling his eyes and making yap-yap motions with his free hand. Castiel was clearly in the middle of a lecture, the subject of which, knowing Castiel, could be anything from the migratory patterns of White Things to the manufacture of soap in the seventh century. Castiel didn't always get the idea of conversational relevance or human priorities.

"Ask him if he got my message," Sam said.

Dean cleared his throat and glanced nervously at Mary before asking, "Uh, Cas, did you get the message we sent earlier?"

Dean smirked at Sam, but then guiltily dodged Mary's questioning gaze. Sam tried to distract her by offering her another beer, but she wasn't finished with the one she was drinking.

"No, no, that's good actually. It was just, um, not important. No, really. It, uh." Dean floundered and then threw Sam under the bus. "I don't even remember what Sam wanted. Here."

Sam mouthed _I hate you_ out of their mother's line of sight and Dean only smirked again.

"Hey, Castiel. It's Sam."

"Hello, Sam."

_Oh, heavenly angel, can you hear me? I mean, other than through the phone. Hello?_

After a moment with no response, Sam forged ahead. The easiest lies stayed close to the truth. "I wanted to ask about those wards we discussed earlier."

"It's been taken care of," Castiel said. "Although I cannot guarantee that Byron's plan would actually deter a Sheepsquatch at all. His wards are mainly aimed at were-beast hybrids and we still have no idea what this creature actually is."

"Yeah. Okay. Um, no, actually I was talking about the other wards we talked about earlier. Not this case. Another case. Well, no, not a case. Just, uh, remember that conversation we had yesterday about general warding. Like, hypothetically, if we ever needed to jam Angel Radio. We think we found a spell that would work and we figured we should test it before we needed it, so, um, did you hear any prayers?" _Seriously, Castiel, I need to know if anyone else heard me worshipping Dean's dick. Because, if so, kind of embarrassing._ Was that good enough? Sam wasn't sure where you drew the line between a thought and a prayer.

Mary was still watching him curiously and he was pretty sure he saw her eyes flick to the warding sigils on the glass covering a watercolor of a bluebird. Even without mind-reading angels, Sam was about to die of shame.

"Are you within the warding now?" Castiel asked. "Focus on sending me a prayer."

"Do you need to tune in the right station first or something?" Sam asked.

He could hear Castiel sigh into his cell phone. "The radio metaphor is highly inadequate. I've tried to explain that to Dean before."

_Oh, my God, whatever. Can you hear me now?_

Silence. "Anything?"

"Humans pray, intentionally or not, on a fairly regular basis. Granted the most frequent involve stubbed toes and lost car keys and border on blasphemous. So there's an almost constant—"

"Castiel," Sam growled.

"But nothing involving you or Dean."

Sam walked over and slid open the window. _Oh, heavenly pain-in-the-butt, can you hear me now?_

"Loud and clear and there is no need to be rude."

"Sorry. And thanks." To Dean, he added, "It only works with the window closed."

Dean walked over and very pointedly closed the window. "Great," Dean said, "so just in case we ever theoretically need to block out angels on some future case, we know how to do it. Y'know, later, if we ever needed to."

"You might as well come back to the hotel. We'll regroup in the morning. We need to do more research. Dean and I can meet you and Mom at the hotel restaurant for breakfast."

He was hoping to nudge the conversation into a goodbye. Perhaps even Mary would take the hint and call it a night.

Of course, Dean popped in with a, "They have one of those all-you-can-eat pancake deals. They are not banking on how many pancakes I can eat."

"Right. In the morning. Research and pancakes. Night, Castiel." Sam hung up the phone before Dean could add anything else.

Mary laughed and stood up. "I think I can take a hint as well." Just as Sam was sighing in relief she added, "We should leave your brother alone. I think somebody's tired."

"We?" Dean repeated.

She picked up the remaining cans of beer and then nodded at Dean's bag. "Get your crap off your brother's bed. He wants to go to bed. We should leave him be."

So right and yet so very wrong.

"Oh, right," Dean said, picking up his bag. "Because I have my own room. Which I plan to sleep in. By myself."

Dear, Lord, could he be any less subtle?

"Y'know, _away_ from the fart machine," Dean added.

"Hey!"

"Dean, be nice," Mary said, holding the door open for him.

"No seriously, you don't even want to be in the same building with him after he's been eating beans. Even that pepperoni was probably a bad idea."

Sam slammed the door behind them.

 _Why do I love him? Why?_ It was useless. He loved the jerk. He stretched and paced and decided he was giving Dean exactly five minutes to ditch Mary before he texted him and demanded he get his ass back in there.

Only four minutes passed before there was a frantic knocking at the door.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	14. No One Is Afraid Of Raccoons

_Only four minutes passed before there was a frantic knocking at the door._

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam let Dean in and rushed to close the door behind him, a guilty look out into the hallway before hanging out the _Do Not Disturb_ tag. Door locked. And bolted.

Dean was missing his bag so, presumably, Mary must have walked him back to his room. He wasn't entirely empty-handed though. He flashed Sam the lube he had palmed in his left hand.

Which was perhaps not the most romantic overture, but it was good enough for Sam. He picked Dean up and carried him to the bed. He tossed him down onto the mattress and practically dove on top of him. 

After one of the longest, deepest kisses Sam had ever experienced, Dean came up gasping, "That was so hot." 

He would have to debrief Dean later to figure out exactly which of those moves had worked so well. 

In the meantime, he stripped naked and Dean did the same. Sam was already fully hard, his body having been on edge all evening, but Dean looked only slightly more swollen than completely disinterested. Dean _said_ he was turned on. Was that good enough? Was there an etiquette here? If a chick told you she was turned on, you kind of just took her at her word. If a dude said he was, but obviously _wasn't_ …

"Do you need me to hold you down?"

Dean's dick answered for him with a twitch.

Sam's instinct was to go for his groin, stroke him up to full hardness before trying anything else, but Dean's turn-ons seemed to be a little different. So, instead, he went for his wrists, pinning them above his head. Dean shivered and writhed underneath him and his dick perked up even more. 

"You remember your safeword?" Sam breathed into Dean's ear, deliberately putting a little extra husk into it.

"It was, I don't know, rabbit food or some shit."

"Close enough."

Sam sank down, nudging legs between Dean's legs, resting most of his weight on Dean's pelvis while keeping a firm hold on both wrists and then went in for another slow kiss. Dean moaned into it and wrapped his legs around Sam's hips. Sam wanted to do this for a thousand years, but he also couldn't stand it for another minute.

"Dean, I need, I need to get down to business here."

"Anything."

"Would you, um, be willing to—"

"Anything," Dean repeated.

Dean, who otherwise _never_ did what Sam said, being so compliant made Sam just a little bit crazy. Sam deliberately growled out his next words like an order. "On your knees." 

He let go of Dean's wrists and changed position, sitting back on his heels.

Dean's eyes widened and he eagerly rolled over and got on his knees, literally presenting himself to Sam like a prize. Sam couldn't resist slapping Dean's ass, kind of a cheap porno move, but so be it. He grabbed the lube and slicked himself up, got into _almost_ the right position, and then deliberately slid between Dean's legs and under, rubbing his dick against Dean's balls, occasionally getting a little teasing friction of dick against dick. Dean started to rock his hips, frantically searching for more.

He wasn't sure that Dean was with it enough to listen, but he gave another order. "Hold still." To his shock and delight, Dean obediently stilled. "Good boy."

He got more lube and started working Dean open with his fingers. He could feel Dean trembling. He was pretty sure it was a good kind of tremble, but just to be sure, he said, "Tell me you want this."

"I want it," Dean gasped.

"Tell me how much you want it," Sam ordered.

"Fuck, Sammy, I want you more than anything. More than anyone else ever. More than life. Just fucking fuck me already."

It was so much hyperbolic bullshit, except Dean had proven more than once it was true. And now he was offering Sam so much more.

"Oh, God, I don't deserve you," Sam said as he slid his dick inside Dean.

"Fuck, yes! Just like that!"

"Yes!" Sam agreed heartily. Or maybe he just grunted. It's possible he wasn't forming coherent words at all, but the sentiment was definitely _This is exceedingly pleasant_ just with a lot fewer syllables.

There was a thumping on the wall. "Just because you've warded the room against prayers doesn't mean you're not loud!" Castiel shouted.

Sam froze. "You've heard worse!" Dean shouted back. "Turn on your TV and turn up the volume if you don't like it!"

"This is why people go on honeymoons," Sam panted. "You really need some time to just fuck your brains out miles and miles away from your friends and family."

"Ignore him," Dean said, actively wriggling on Sam's dick. "Come on. Get back to it."

It was a surreal moment, right in the middle of sex, his hot lover shifted back into being his annoying brother and Sam couldn't quite believe what they were doing.

"Where's Mom's room?" Sam asked, absolutely terrified of the answer.

"Other side of the hotel. We're good. They've got a bunch of family in from out of town and they put Mom up in a room adjoining the bride's sister next to the pool."

"You're sure?" Sam asked.

"Positive."

"Good. Great. Okay."

It took Sam a moment to find his rhythm again. He did and there were amazing orgasms for all, but from that moment forward, it was the quietest most self-conscious sex that Sam had ever had.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam was so happy that he was practically purring when he woke the next morning. Yet something was nagging at him in the background and it took a few moments for him to process that it wasn't metaphorical.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean nagged. "You've gotta let go."

"Mm-mm," Sam said, firmly if not clearly, hugging Dean even tighter. "Mine."

"Man, you are so stupid in the morning before you've had your coffee," his brother muttered. It was that subtle shift again. Brother. Brother not lover, maybe a hint of hunting partner, or even irritated coworker—all of their roles overlapped more than a little—but no real hint of lover at all. "You don't have to wake up yet," Dean continued. "Here, hug a pillow if you want to hug something."

"Not the same," Sam protested when Dean shoved a pillow in his arms and slipped out of bed.

"I have to take a shower and change into something I wasn't wearing yesterday _before_ Mom shows up with… I don't know, cinnamon rolls or whatever. We need to find a way to put a bell on her."

Sam grunted sulkily. He totally agreed, but he didn't have to like it.

Dean leaned back in and kissed Sam _on the forehead_. He ruffled Sam's hair and then walked out, leaving Sam equal parts irritated and confused. The forehead, really?

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Mary volunteered to hit the local library for research. Castiel tagged along with Sam and Dean as they interviewed the wedding party and other locals. It made for an awkward day. Dean practically had a neon sign over his head flashing _We are NOT talking about it_ and Sam did his best to avoid eye contact with Castiel. Which was just as well for another reason.

Castiel had opted to don his standard uniform and just looking at his trenchcoat in the summer heat made Sam itchy. He'd sort of expected West Virginia to be less humid than Florida, but if anything, away from the ocean breezes, it had actually gotten hotter and stickier.

The angel wasn't blending in with the locals at all.

As for the job, Sam had to remind himself that their only real objective was to get through the wedding without incident and thus it was okay they were making zero progress. They met up with the groom, Landon, and his friends Cody, Derek, and Travis at a small diner on their lunch break. Landon was a city boy out of Virginia Beach with a deep fear of legendary monsters in the woods. And bears. And snakes. 

Also spiders. And bobcats. Mutant hill people. Cougars. (This lead to a long debate amongst his buddies about whether the eastern mountain lion was or was not extinct and whether Fish & Wildlife was part of a conspiracy to hide the truth from the public and not even Dean—"Speaking of Sheeple…"—could steer the conversation back on topic until it had run its course, which took up nearly the entire lunch break they had available to interview them.) Ghosts. Hatchet-wielding serial killers. And raccoons.

"You made that one up," Sam accused Travis. "No one is afraid of raccoons."

"I didn't say I was afraid of raccoons, like in general," Landon protested. "I specifically said _rabid_ raccoons. All rabid animals actually. Have you seen the teeth on a possum?"

" _Why?_ ," Dean repeated for possibly the seventeenth time. " _Why_ are you getting married after dark in the woods?"

"Have you seen the chick he's marrying?" Cody asked. "She's smoking hot."

"And crazy," Derek put in.

"But hot," Cody said. "Smoking hot and crazy is like the magic recipe."

"Dude, don't say it like that," Travis said. "Courtney's your cousin."

Dean's lip twitched into a smirk and then he suddenly frowned and glanced at Sam. _Yeah, dude, we don't get to make fun of that anymore._

"Also, he _likes_ crazy," Cody said, nudging Landon with a leer. "You ever meet his ex-girlfriend Whitney? She makes Courtney look almost sane, like almost."

"Mental illness is desirable in a mate in what way?" Castiel asked.

"And you have no idea why a Sheepsquatch might target you specifically?" Dean asked.

"Wait, you think it's after _me_?!"

"It seemed to go after your car specifically," Sam pointed out. "None of the other cars in the lot were even scratched."

Landon looked ill. It was very clear that the idea had not occurred to him before.

The guys had to get back to work. Cody was the local veterinarian, but Landon and the other guys worked construction and Dean invited himself to tag along to the job site.

Sam decided to swing by the library and see how Mary was doing with the research and, to his surprise, Castiel opted to go with him instead of Dean.

They walked about two blocks in silence before Castiel said, "Humans place great importance on sexual intimacy."

"Can we not have this conversation in public?" Sam asked.

"I have reason to suspect that your mother might be desirous of—"

"Or even better, can we not have this conversation at all?"

Castiel sighed dramatically but dropped the subject.

They found Mary at the library as expected, but she wasn't looking at newspaper archives or reading up on local folklore. Mary was sitting in a quiet corner, intently reading what at first glance looked like a romance novel. 

The title was _Bloodlust_ which made him fear it was something a little too racy to catch your mother reading, but when Sam caught the name Carver Edlund, he realized with a start that the Fabio-a-like on the cover was meant to be him. The only detail the cover artist had gotten right about the far-too-blond other guy was the color of Dean's eyes and, okay, also the creepily possessive way he was staring at not-Fabio.

"Hey," Sam said as softly as he could.

Mary still startled in the quiet library and then frowned back down at the book. "Sorry. I get a little hyperfocused when I read. Bad habit. You should always be aware of your surroundings."

"So, research?"

She shook her head. "I gave up on that hours ago. This doesn't seem to be the kind of legend that's really picked up traction in the local psyche. Very little lore and the only news stories all seem rather dismissive and tend to point out how many beers witnesses had drunk before the sightings. Are you writing these things down?"

"Huh?"

"You and Dean probably know more about the occult than anyone. Are you writing any of it down? I mean, our biggest frustration with research is how vague the lore is. We should be doing something about that for the next generation. And it's not like this guy helped much," she said waving the book in frustration. 

She set _Bloodlust_ in her lap and grabbed another book off the table next to her. Flipping to a page near the end, she read, "'A mixture of herbs and consecrated blood.' What does that even mean? Which herbs? What proportions? Is there a special invocation to consecrate the blood? Or is it supposed to be the blood from a person who had been consecrated like a priest or something?" 

"Yeah, Chuck liked being mysterious."

"You," she said, pointing at Castiel. "You should be writing this down."

"I am not the Scribe of God," Castiel protested.

"So? Scribe of Hunters then. We need to get you a notebook."

Mary stood and shoved one of the paperbacks down the waistband of the back of her jeans and attempted to cover it up with her shirt. It would have been an easy thing to hide under a jacket in the autumn, but she wasn't going to get away with it. "Too obvious?"

"Way too obvious," Sam agreed.

"Well, it's a good thing you're always overdressed," she told Castiel, before stashing three _Supernatural_ novels on him.

"I don't believe you are allowed to remove these books from the library without the librarian signing them out," Castiel said.

Mary quirked an eyebrow at Sam, a silent _Is he for real?_ and Sam nodded.

"That's why we're hiding them," she explained. "I don't live here so I can't get a library card, but I promise I will bring them back. Okay?"

Considering that Castiel probably had an angel blade and who knew what else hidden in his coat, Sam didn't know why he looked so uncomfortable about smuggling a few library books, but then, perhaps it was the person doing the stashing and… yeah, not thinking about that. Was this it? Was it official? Was their mother dating an angel now?

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Dean stopped by the hotel before the bachelor party to shower and change, looking just sweaty and dirty enough that Sam figured he'd volunteered some free labor while continuing to question the groom and his friends. If Sam wasn't imagining things, Dean's freckles were darker from the afternoon sun.

They regrouped briefly in the lobby, but all Dean had to report was that when they weren't razzing the groom for his phobias, none of the guys took the White Thing seriously. They were roughly split on whether the video had been faked as a hoax or whether it was just a wild animal that wandered through the parking lot and scraped up the car, with the slight advantage toward Cody the vet's theory that it was a stray goat. Clearly, none of them had actually seen the video.

"So… the groom is the only one who's actually scared of the thing?" Sam asked.

"You figure that's why he's the target?" Dean asked.

"This wouldn't be the first otherworldly creature that fed off of fear," Mary said.

"Meanwhile, you should definitely shower before the party tonight," Sam said. "You stink." It wasn't actually an offensive sort of stink, just a musky smell that left Sam wistful that he couldn't offer to help him shower, but when Castiel sniffed experimentally in Dean's direction, Sam repeated, "No, seriously, you stink. Go."

"Would you like your books back now?" Castiel offered. Dean had turned towards the stairs, but he froze when Castiel began producing paperbacks from his nether regions for Mary.

"Thanks," Mary said. "And I need to check out that archive of 'interquel' novels. _These_ ," she said fanning out books #16 _Shadow_ , #17 _Salvation_ , and #18 _Bloodlust_ , "are _not_ sequential. There are gaps between them."

Based on the generic titles, Sam didn't have the faintest idea what cases they were about and the cover art was all pretty interchangeable. He glanced at Dean for his reaction, but Dean just shrugged and trudged off to the stairs.

The evening did not go off as Sam had imagined at all. They were getting ready for security detail at the bachelor party when Mary and the bride's sister Morgan swung by to pick up Castiel for the bachelorette party. Morgan took an immediate shine to the angel, which amused Mary, but annoyed Dean, which in turn kind of irked Sam. So a chick was flirting with Castiel? So what? 

So Sam was probably not thinking things through all the way when he volunteered for bachelorette party duties in Castiel's place. Mary and Morgan both shrugged and the next thing he knew they were off, leaving Dean guppy-breathing on the curb and Castiel looking no more confused than usual.

The bachelorette party ended up being significantly tamer than he'd feared. He was expecting male strippers, but it was only one guy who, though shirtless, did a fairly chaste workout routine, which was, okay, technically centered around a stripper pole, but was mainly a lot of ab work.

"Wait? You can get paid for just working out in front of people?" Sam asked when the guy took a break. 

The guy took the offered beer and said, "Yeah, pretty much. I mean, you can't just do straight reps or they get bored so you have to at least try to choreograph a routine, but you don't have to do anything fancy. Ever done pole work?"

Sam had a feeling he knew where this was going and if Dean had been there it would have been well worth making a fool out of himself to tease his brother, but as it was he was there with his mother.

"I suppose I'm morally obligated to talk you out of it," Mary said, startling him. Dean was so right. They had to find a way to put a bell on her. "But, tell you what. I've got a lot of reading to catch up on," she said, holding up her phone, "so I volunteer as the designated driver tonight. You knock yourself out."

If Sam had _only_ gotten into a drinking contest with Courtney, (who could hold her liquor surprisingly well for a woman of five foot three) or he'd _only_ gotten into a display of machismo with the pole dancer, he would have been fine. Maybe a little sore around the abdomen region the next day, because some of those moves turned out to be a lot harder than they looked, but still fine. 

Sam could handle it. Sam drank. Sam worked out. However, doing _both_ in the same evening proved to be his downfall.

Not that he wasn't still fine. He was fine. The only part he was having trouble with was the staying vertical part and since Mary was driving him back to the hotel, it was all fine.

Morgan giggled at him the whole way back, but when they got to the hotel, she seemed to think they had a problem. "Maybe we could just leave him in the car overnight? I'm sure he'd be fine."

"I'm fine," Sam repeated.

"Sam, sweetie," Mary said. "Do you remember how your knees work?"

"I have knees," Sam said.

"I'll take that as a no. Oh, thank God. Dean! Dean, over here. Your brother is very heavy."

Familiar footsteps approached the car and then Dean's head popped into view. "What the hell did you do to him? Do you realize how much alcohol it takes to knock down the moose?"

"I was fine with the whiskey," Sam explained. "It was all the spinning. So much spinning."

"What?"

"He said he handled the whiskey, which personally, I don't think is entirely true, but that it was spinning around the pole that got to him."

"Pole?"

"Did you know," Sam said, "that you can make money by just working out in front of people?" He offered Dean a handful of crumpled bills as proof.

"Okay, yeah," Mary said. "I probably should have put a stop to it at that point, but he was having fun."

Dean grabbed hold of Sam's feet and dragged him halfway out of the car. Placing Sam's feet firmly on the ground, he said, "Okay, Sammy, I need you to help a little. You can lean on me, but it would be really nice if I didn't have to carry you the whole way. Do you think you can do that?"

"I'm fine here."

"No, you're really not. We're going to get you upstairs, get you into a clean bed…" Dean sniffed at Sam and added, "Maybe give you a bath first."

Sam had barely spilled hardly any liquor on himself and it's not like he got _that_ sweaty, so he had no idea what Dean was complaining about, but then he sort of processed the offer. " _You're_ going to give me a bath?"

Dean glanced toward someone out of sight and then said, "Let's just get you upstairs and then we'll decide whether you need a bath. We can _close all the windows_ and turn on the air conditioning. Won't that feel better than sleeping inside a hot car?"

" _Half_ -inside a hot car," Mary said. 

Sam might have been a touch tipsy, but he didn't miss the veiled promise behind _close all the windows_. He slid out of the car and somehow ended up on his knees, but from that position, it was fairly easy to climb up Dean and achieve standing upright.

"I thought we knew how to drink," Sam said.

Dean stared at him wordlessly.

"Have you _seen_ how much alcohol a tiny, tiny West Virginian woman can drink?" Sam asked.

"To be fair," Morgan said, "Courtney really is in a class by herself."

Dean steered Sam into the hotel and Sam made it all the way through the lobby and up the stairs without swaying very much.

In his room, Dean closed the door firmly before questioning him. "Can we talk about the fact that you were supposed to provide _security_ for that party and you apparently decided to provide the _entertainment_ instead?"

"No, they _had_ a professional entertainer there. He showed me how to do a _table top_ and an _extended pencil_ , but I couldn't quite get the hang of the _extended brass monkey_. What? The leg grips are hard," he added defensively when Dean gave him one of his condescending looks.

"Are you going to puke?" Dean asked.

"What? No. I'm fine."

"Are you going to pass out?"

"I'm _fine_."

"If I let you get into a bathtub are you going to be able to get back out without falling and smashing your fool head in?"

"I don't think I can bathe by myself. I might drown. You'll have to be my lifeguard."

"Yeah," Dean said with a smirk, "that was kind of the idea. But just in case you didn't notice, I'm not the picture of sobriety myself, so do we really think this is a good idea?"

Dean was the only thing in the room that wasn't oozing in and out of focus so he didn't think he could really be drunk. "You're fine," Sam said.

"I let Castiel drive the Impala back from the party."

"Whoa."

"Yeah."

"You must be wasted."

"I'm doing a lot better than you are, Spinny. I cannot believe that Mom let you get drunk and pole dance at a bachelorette party."

"She had her nose in her phone the whole time. She's like really pissed off at Chuck's publisher. Like, one book ends on a cliffhanger and the next one picks up months later, so now she's reading all the in-between stuff. Did I mention she's really cranky about it?"

"We've made pretty much all the bad decisions that it's possible to make, right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

"So… drunken bath," Dean said, "that doesn't even crack the top one hundred of bad decisions?"

"Not even close."

"Good. Let's get naked."

The bath was a terrible idea. Sam avoided baths because even solo he wound up sitting in little more than a puddle of water. The hotel they were being put up in was generally much nicer than their typical digs, nicer even than the Florida beachside hi-rise had been. But that had not translated to a much larger tub so, when full, it contained significantly more arms and legs by volume than water and the stupid glass door meant they couldn't just dangle their legs off the side. 

But it was still kind of nice because even with Dean's knees jammed awkwardly into Sam's armpits, Dean was doing his best to fulfill his promise of bathing Sam. That translated to rubbing Sam down with a washcloth and scooping up handfuls of bathwater to drip over Sam's shoulders. 

The stupidest part—the secretly _best_ part—were all the dumb little things Dean kept cooing at him.

 _Sweetheart. Baby boy. Beautiful. Sweet Sammy. My Sammy._

Every now and then Little Dean stirred against Sam's back vouching for Dean's sincerity, but despite the thrill that went down his spine, Sam could not reciprocate. Princess just flopped there like a dead sea slug. 

"I love you," Sam whispered. "I just want you to know that because I think I'm too drunk to suck dick without puking, but even if I can't show you right now, I really, really, really, really love you."

"Man, I went to the wrong party tonight," Dean said and kissed him on the shoulder.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam didn't remember how they got from the tub to the bed, but he had bruised shins and a good imagination. Between the alcohol and the air conditioning, by morning he was pretty dehydrated, but he couldn't quite bring himself to get out of bed yet. As much as he wanted a glass of water, Dean was sleeping naked _right there_ and it was just so fascinating.

When fully aroused, Dean was not nearly as impressive as he thought he was. Like, Sam hadn't actually brought a measuring tape to the party, but it was still pretty clear that he was the winner hands down. But the morning after, all floppy and relaxed, Dean's dick looked kind of big. 

Sam's dick did this embarrassing vanishing act when it wasn't actively participating. He'd put up with years of Dean cracking tiny dick jokes because there was just no non-obscene way for him to prove otherwise. 

And with all Dean's bragging, Sam had always assumed his larger-than-average flaccid dick would swell into a massive erection. Not that there was anything to complain about there. His erection was probably above the mean as well, he just wasn't intimidating porn-star huge or anything.

Sam still wasn't sure what to _do_ with the foreskin. Thus far, he'd just been kind of sliding it back out of the way and ignoring it. There had to be more to it than that though, right? Dean had seemed pretty excited about his newly restored body back in the day. 

Sam reached out and gently slid Dean's foreskin back to reveal the tip of his penis. He wondered how Dean felt about surprise wake-up blowjobs. Hot or startling? Sam generally liked to be out of punching range before startling Dean awake. 

He slid the foreskin back in place, rolling it between his fingers. When not erect, it was easy to pull the foreskin all the way over the end pinching it closed like a mystery goody bag. Exposed or hidden? He kind of preferred the exposed look, but maybe that was just what he was used to. Once he got used to associating foreskin with Dean, he expected that might shift. His porn searches were going to be a little different. He really ought to look up some different bondage positions.

Exposed or hidden? Still, there was something to be said for hidden. The way skimpy lingerie was sometimes more of a turn-on than total nudity. There was something tantalizing about the almost-seen. Little Dean's hoodie meant that there was always a part of Dean that Sam had to get his hands on to see. It was like unwrapping a present.

Dean sighed a petulant huff. " _Why_ are you playing _peek-a-boo_ with my _dick_?"

"What does it feel like?" Sam asked.

"What does it feel like having an imbecile for a brother?" Dean asked sleepily. "Well, some days it's a challenge."

"Come on, seriously. I want to know. Is it sensitive?" Sam gently caressed the skin with one finger.

"Not nearly as sensitive as other places you could have that finger right now."

"Does it turn you on at all when I do this?" Sam said fondling it again.

"I mean, I think it's absolutely adorable that you've developed some kind of foreskin fetish."

Sam pouted. He really did _not_ do it on purpose very often, but this time he kind of did. Dean had a secret weakness. Dean could not resist the pout.

"And, okay, it might be just a little bit hot when you expose me like that," Dean confessed, unknowingly using the exact word Sam had been thinking. "Just the idea that you're playing with my junk at all is kind of flattering."

"So…?" Sam leaned in with an experimental swipe of his tongue.

"So I really wish we had time for this." Dean sat up and literally cock-blocked Sam with a pillow.

"Oh, come on. The rehearsal isn't until tonight."

"The rehearsal _dinner_ is tonight. The rehearsal is this afternoon. And this afternoon is in," Dean said with a yawn and a glance at the clock, "seven minutes."

Dean's phone rang on cue, the now-familiar refrain of _Mama Tried_ making Sam uncomfortable. There was something heartbreaking about the line in the chorus _that leaves only me to blame_ that was just a little too fitting for Dean.

Dean answered with a grunted hello. "Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay. Yeah." He hung up and slid out of bed.

"No," Sam protested on principle, knowing it was a lost cause.

"You're about to get a call," Dean said, pulling on his clothes. "Give me a ten-minute head start so we don't both walk in at the same time."

Sam would have argued further, but as predicted his phone rang. Dean made his escape while Sam was assuring their mother that he hadn't died in the night and would be downstairs for lunch in a few minutes.

It really was a marvel that Sam had fallen for the watered-down daiquiris. With a fresh reminder of what being drunk really felt like, he'd never even come close to drunk in Florida. It was embarrassing, but when he really thought about it, he would be eternally grateful for those stupid fake daiquiris. Thinking he was drunk let him drop his inhibitions while Princess was still in the game and his memory was in full working order. Actual drunk? Princess was a non-starter and his memory was hazy.

As requested, he gave Dean a head start and took a little extra time getting dressed and rehydrating before he headed downstairs.

Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes tops. That was all the time that it took for it to all go to hell.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this story has a happy ending... eventually.
> 
> Anyway, uh... remember when I said this story was going to be 19 chapters? I've updated the chapter count to ~~21~~ **ahem, 22**. 
> 
> That is partly because this chapter was too long and I opted to break it here. 
> 
> The other reason is good news for some of you... I decided to expand one paragraph into an entire sex scene and it got a little excessive. 
> 
> Warning: the next chapter has angst and feels, which is part of why I opted to break the chapter here _before_ it got upsetting. (You're either going to want to smack Dean upside the head for being an idiot or you're going to want to pick him up and hug him forever because the poor baby has issues. Sam kind of wants to do both.)


	15. We've Done Worse

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam entered the hotel restaurant just as Dean was storming out. "This ends now," Dean announced, staring blankly over Sam's shoulder, not even doing him the courtesy of an attempt at eye contact. "This isn't what family does."

Sam was so taken aback that he didn't say a word. Didn't reach out and grab Dean to stop him from leaving. Didn't do or say any of a hundred things that he could have or should have. 

Castiel was sitting at a booth near the window with three cups of coffee in front of him, but no other sign that Mary had been there.

Sam walked over and joined him, still confused. Surely Dean didn't actually mean that. Dean wouldn't just dump him like that, in public, with no explanation. Would he?

"What's going on?" he asked Castiel.

"They already put in their food order, but I don't expect either Mary or Dean to return. Do you want his burger or her Reuben? I have no preference."

"What's happening?" Sam asked, thinking perhaps rephrasing the question would help. Sam was suddenly twice as hungover as he'd been two minutes before.

"Mary didn't sleep last night," Castiel said. "She apparently stayed up all night reading Carver Edlund books. She's not happy. She doesn't want to talk about it. Thus Dean is unhappy and doesn't want to talk about it."

"But… she was reading the early stuff, right? Before Dean went to hell, before Ruby and the demon blood, before I lost my soul… and she said she already knew all that stuff. What's she upset about?"

Castiel shrugged. "Two of the novels centered on Meg's first incarnation. Perhaps she was disturbed by Pastor Jim's killing. She asked Dean several pointed questions about him."

"Pastor Jim was Dad's friend. I don't think Mom even knew him." Sam did not point out how many other deaths they had endured which Mary had taken in stride. Including the brutal murders of her own parents in her youth, Mary had faced and accepted many deaths. All except one. "I think it's probably Dad. We keep forgetting that his loss feels recent to her. Her heaven was a continuation of her happy family and then she's resurrected to… us."

"Dean seems to take it personally," Castiel said.

Dean wasn't the only one. Even Sam had to admit that it stung a little to be a disappointment to their mother. But he also knew that even she realized you couldn't compare fantasy children with the real flawed adults they'd grown into. She didn't blame them. Dean had to get that. Although, of course, yeah, recent activities might meet with more disapproval if she knew. And Dean's main goal in life was to be the perfect son, if not in their father's eyes at least in their mother's.

"I just want to be happy for like three days in a row," Sam said. "Is that really too much to ask?"

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam wasn't super worried at first. Or even that surprised. Just annoyed and frustrated. Dean had _moods_. It was to be expected really. He'd come around eventually. Unfortunately _eventually_ could be an eternity.

They helped set up for the wedding rehearsal and Dean was professionally polite, but an outside observer wouldn't have been able to guess that Dean shared any more history with Sam than with Greg or Byron. 

The thing Sam was unprepared for was how genuinely displeased Mary was with the universe. She was curt with everyone, including Castiel, and only put on a cheery demeanor when making fake-nice with the bridal party. She spent all of her free-time reading, flipping through multiple bookmarks in two paperbacks, and even when she put the books away to work she had her phone in one hand the whole time.

Sam could have sworn she actually snarled at her phone at one point.

"What's she reading?" he whispered to Castiel who had somehow been drafted from his security position to follow the mother of the bride around with a clipboard.

Castiel glanced over at Mary and then glanced back at the mother of the bride to make sure he wasn't urgently needed. "She's been focusing on the unpublished works covering events between your reunion with your father when Meg used you and your brother to set a trap for him and Meg's murder of Pastor Jim."

Sam shrugged. _So? That's it?_

"She seems particularly upset about the unpublished novel _Something Wicked_."

"Yeah, that still doesn't narrow it down."

"You and your brother defeated a shtriga and saved a number of children," Castiel said.

Sam considered that for a moment. "But that's one of the good cases. We won that one. Nobody even died. Besides the shtriga, I mean."

"I don't understand the problem either," Castiel said.

Before Sam could ask anything else, the mother of the bride called, "Castille! Oh, Castille! I need you over here, please."

Castiel rolled his eyes, but he followed without protest.

When Byron asked for volunteers to secure the perimeter, Sam said that he and Dean would be happy to take care of it. He was really looking forward to talking to Dean privately. However, Dean begged off with a lame excuse and sent Greg in his place.

Wedding rehearsals turned out to be even more boring than weddings, and as Greg and Sam were heading out, groomsman Cody slipped away and joined them.

Castiel had already confirmed the protective wards were still in place, so Sam was really just going through the motions of checking for signs of a large animal.

"You know the Sheepsquatch story is baloney, right?" Cody asked after a while. "I almost feel bad about teasing Landon about it. I had no idea he was going to take it so seriously."

Greg laughed. "Hell, we don't mind. Easiest security job you can have is an imaginary monster. If the groom didn't fall for your bullshit, we wouldn't have even gotten this job."

Sam offered a wan smile, but he wasn't really in the mood to laugh along. "So, you don't believe the legend of the White Thing at all?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to be alone in the _deep woods_ ," Cody said, "cause there's plenty of other things out there, more than a lot of city people wanting a short day hike expect, but a seven-foot tall, four-eyed ram walking on its hind legs? Not really one of my concerns."

"Wait? _Four_ eyes?" The creature on the video definitely did not have four eyes.

"Well, according to my great-uncle Norbert, but that man's always high as shit."

That finally got a laugh out of Sam.

"I mean it. Picture Willie Nelson only not that sober."

"Speaking of not being sober," Greg said, pointing at the trail back to the parking lot. "I got a cooler in my truck."

Greg and Cody each grabbed a six-pack and they headed back into the woods. Greg's taste ran toward cheap, so Sam took one beer can out of politeness, but only sipped it occasionally for show.

They walked just far enough out into the woods to be out of sight of the parking lot and Greg pointed to a fallen log as an inviting place to sit, but Cody nodded towards a steep trail heading uphill. "You're not from around here, are you, Sam? You've got to check out this view."

Greg looked wistfully at the log, but grudgingly agreed, "Yeah, it's pretty if you want to go all the way up there."

Sam was game and let Cody lead the way. It wasn't nearly as long or difficult as Greg had made him fear and the next thing he knew he and Cody were sitting on a big rock overlooking a waterfall. It was the kind of water that made you itch to strip down and jump in. Yet he couldn't help but think there were also a lot of dark shadows between the rocks behind them. Something could remain quite well-hidden back in those natural caves.

Greg finally caught up with them, doing his best to hide his wheezing behind a stoic face. Sam tried not to look smug that he'd outpaced the local on the hills even while still nursing a slight hangover.

They all sat on the rocks and watched the water and said _Hey_ to passing hikers. Sam eventually accepted a second beer, but Greg and Cody finished off the rest without even seeming to notice that Sam didn't keep up. They gossiped about the wedding party and the guests expected the next day. They gossiped about both families. They gossiped about Byron and how much money Courtney's dad was throwing away on unnecessary security just because Landon was spooked. Every now and then, Sam tried to steer the conversation back to the White Thing, but even when it started to get dark and Cody found the motivation to tell scary stories, he dismissed that one as dull and told the tale of a phantom worm monster that haunted the coal mines instead.

Sam experienced a genuine shudder or two. Cody was a solid storyteller, but mainly the idea of being in something as claustrophobic as a coal mine in the first place was so unsettling that the added threat of a tunneling shadow monster was barely necessary to make him jump every time Cody slipped a good gotcha into the story.

"I've never even heard of a coal worm before," Sam said.

"That's probably because Cody just made it up," Greg said, toasting Cody appreciatively. "That was a good one."

Cody shrugged. "It's a knack."

"Wait, so the disappearing miners was actually what?"

"Never happened. People die in the mines. Sure. But not often, and they sure as hell don't just vanish into the shadows unnoticed one at a time."

"Oh, my God," Sam laughed. "You totally had me."

"My best one so far is when I convinced Landon that the library is still haunted from its days as a Civil War hospital."

"Let me guess," Sam said. "It was never a hospital."

"Hell, the war never even got up here into the hills, but Landon doesn't know crap so you can tell him anything and he'll fall for it."

"That's mean," Greg said. "You've got the man jumping at his own shadow."

"Nah, it's not like they're planning to stick around. So, what's the harm? Courtney's got her old man thinking they'll put down roots, but my money says they won't even unpack from the honeymoon before they're off to the coast. Courtney's bored and wants to see some city life and I think Landon just wants to put some space between himself and Whitney and, y'know, Sheepsquatches and Mine Worms."

"You mentioned her before," Sam said. "That's the crazy ex?"

"I think she's the reason Landon moved here in the first place. They met in college I think. Didn't work out. I swear she's even the one who left him, but she's always had this lingering possessiveness. Like, she brought him here so he's hers. Been on-again-off-again for years. She snaps her fingers and gets him back. Man has _no_ backbone. Finally met her match in our Courtney, but Courtney's not stupid. Only way to see the last of Whitney is to get _out_."

Sam smashed the last empty can flat and asked, "So when you say Whitney's crazy…?"

"I'm saying don't think you've got a cakewalk tomorrow with an imaginary monster as your only security concern. What you need to be on alert for is a short blonde with boundary issues."

"How short?" Sam asked, but the answer was cut off by a familiar yell down the trail.

"Sam!" Dean yelled. "Sam!!"

Sam had been aware of the fading light, but it wasn't until Dean's voice was calling out of the dark that he noticed _how_ late it had gotten.

"Dean?!" Sam called back. 

There was the sound of running and then Dean appeared with a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. The gun was at least pointed at the ground and Dean holstered it as soon as he saw that Sam was not in danger. Greg and Cody likely didn't even notice.

"Seriously?!" Dean huffed.

"What?" Greg and Cody and Sam all asked. 

Dean pointed at Greg, "Byron is going to kick your ass." He pointed at Cody, " _Courtney_ is going to kick _your_ ass." He pointed at Sam, "Your ass is _all mine_."

Sam couldn't help but smile because that was pretty much his goal at the moment, but Greg and Cody were sufficiently chastised and skittered back down the trail offering apologies for letting the time get away from them. 

"Do you have _any_ idea how worried people are?" Dean snarled at Sam as soon as they were alone. "If you're going to wander off like that, you tell somebody first. I've been trying to get you on your phone and you don't answer."

"I, it didn't ring, it, I don't think I have a signal out here," Sam stammered.

Dean just ignored him and kept ranting. "Here I think you've been dragged off into a Sheepsquatch lair," he said waving at the shadows between the rocks, "but, no, you're just screwing around out in the woods with Bubba and Billy Ray."

"I think I figured out who has a grudge against Landon," Sam said, not entirely just as a distraction.

"You do _not_ wander off without me like that!"

Which flipped Sam from apologetic to defensive. "Dude, I tried to go on this patrol _with_ you. _You_ are the one who sent me out here with Greg. It's not my fault that Greg walks slow and that Cody never stops talking. You claim you're always looking out for me, then you shouldn't have ditched me."

Dean clenched his jaw and then shocked Sam by saying, "Fair enough. From now on, you don't leave my sight."

"That's more like it," Sam said, stepping close and slipping his hands onto Dean's hipbones. 

Before he could lean in for a kiss, Dean stepped back and slapped his hands away.

"Not like that," he whispered, glancing guiltily around as if lightning bugs might be judging them. "Never again."

"Dean, you have to tell me what happened. I can't read your mind. I don't know what I did wrong. You at least owe me an explanation for dumping me like some conquest whose name you don't remember."

"I let you down, Sam. Too many times. But never again. Mom got my priorities back in order. You are my brother and I take care of you. That's my job."

"What has got Mom's nose out of joint?" Sam asked. "Castiel said he thought it was the shtriga case which doesn't make any sense. No one even died."

"No one died in _Fitchburg_ ," Dean said. "You keep forgetting about Fort Douglas. People died there. _Kids_ died there. _You_ almost died there. All because I couldn't follow a simple order. All because I was a stupid bored kid who wanted to go play arcade games instead of keep watch over his sleeping little brother. Dad told me not to let you out of my sight and I left you alone. I screwed up. That was on me."

"Dean…"

"Mom kept asking me, 'Is this true? Did your father leave you in charge?' Did he really say this or that or the other thing? Like, she's holding out hope that Chuck lied, that I didn't really almost get you killed." 

"Dean…"

"I can't be selfish anymore," Dean said. "I can't risk you just because I'm bored or lonely or want to play arcade games or want to fuck. You are too important. I love you. This ends now _because_ I love you." 

Dean pointed at the trail. Sam gave up and walked down the path. He had to use his cellphone to light the way. Sunset fell fast in hill country, and it was already much darker than Sam had realized, but Dean insisted on walking in the rear, sweeping his flashlight through the scrub, checking for predators. 

Nothing attacked them other than mosquitos.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

As soon as the rehearsal dinner wrapped up and they got back to the hotel, Sam made a beeline for his computer. Something was off and he had to figure out what it was himself. Obviously, Dean was not going to be of any help.

He tried doing a search on _Something Wicked_ , but the search only turned up Ray Bradbury's 1962 novel, its film adaptation, a more recent film that may or may not have been a remake, and various references to _Macbeth_. 

Adding _Carver Edlund_ to the search parameters only brought up additional listings for the published novels, not the story he was looking for.

Sam probably could have kept tweaking the search terms, but he realized there was an easier way. He knew where he was almost certain to find all things Sam and Dean. Just typing it made him uncomfortable, but he grudgingly entered Becky's website `morethanbrothers.net` into his browser. There was something especially embarrassing about Becky figuring out their feelings for each other before they did. 

In addition to the fan fiction, there was fan art. Dear God, the fan art. On the plus side, none of it looked much like him. It was mainly not-Fabio and green-eyed Action Hero. Then again, not all the fan art even included their faces and those were eerily accurate with the anti-possession tattoos. Chuck must have included a diagram in one of the novels. Maybe the tattoo had made it onto one of the book covers.

He finally found the archive of unpublished Carver Edlund stories and was able to click away from all the glistening abs. 

_Something Wicked_ began from the point of view of a little girl, already frightened about her ill sister and missing the comfort of her mother who was instead at her sister's hospital bedside. Her father had no sooner reassured her how safe she was and tucked her in than the shtriga crawled in her window. And then Sam and Dean had rolled into town to save the day. 

Chuck had gotten a little flowery in his descriptions, but it was more or less what Sam had remembered. Although he'd nearly forgotten how hit-and-miss their fake IDs had been back in the day before they'd learned to forge their own. He still couldn't believe Dean had convinced him to carry around an ID that said _bikini inspector_ on it.

There was a lot more to the story than he remembered though. Half of it was told in flashback to when Sam was just five years old. The narrative was just familiar enough that he could half-convince himself that he did remember it, but then it also just had that same-old vibe of hundreds of interchangeable motel rooms and similar cases. He couldn't pull out any specific memories that made this case unique.

Then he hit a scene that he definitely didn't remember at all. Dean cooked him dinner like any other night, but then little Sam, spoiled shit that he was, turned up his nose at Dean's effort and demanded _Dean's_ dinner instead. And Dean just gave it to him. Because Dean.

Sam made a mental note to buy an entire case of Lucky Charms for Dean.

He read through all the Fort Douglas flashback scenes and only skimmed the more recent events in Fitchburg. There was nothing in any of it to explain why Mary would be disappointed in them. And then he finally found the passage.

He must have read it three times before he believed what the words in front of him were saying.

> `Despite his brief nine years in this world, Dean was a well-trained soldier. Any other nine-year-old wouldn't have noticed anything amiss, but the moment he glanced at Sammy's door, Dean's finely honed senses told him something was wrong.`
> 
> `Dean knew when Sam had eaten a bowl of cereal by the weight of the box. He knew from the slight shift in the Impala's parking spot when John Winchester had slipped out drinking the night before. `
> 
> `And he knew exactly how wide Sam's door had been left open.`
> 
> `He crept cautiously forward and inched the door wider. A grown man would have panicked at the sight of the shtriga, looming over Sam's limp form, would have run or screamed. Little Sammy was the center of Dean's world, his entire reason for being. Protecting him had always been and would always be mission number one. Every fiber of his being said to rush forward and rip the monster apart with his own two little hands.`
> 
> `Dean calmly picked up the shotgun he had left in easy reach. Knowing a wild shot would be as bad as no shot, Dean took the time to aim carefully. He had the shtriga in his sights, a clean headshot, while it was feeding and vulnerable. In half a second, the monster would have been dead, nothing left but a bad nightmare.`
> 
> `And then the voice of his father rang out, yelling at him to get out of the way. Dean never hesitated. John gave him an order and he obeyed. John fired multiple rounds, but too late, after the shtriga had stopped feeding. The bullets had no effect. The shtriga escaped into the night.`
> 
> `It was after that that John demanded the sit-rep from his trusted eldest son, his good soldier.`
> 
> `All of Dean's guilt spilled forth. It never occurred to him that John didn't know he hadn't been there all along. He confessed everything, never even thinking to explain that he'd only been thirty yards away the whole time. `
> 
> `Soldiers don't make excuses. Soldiers accept responsibility. Soldiers defer to commanding officers.`
> 
> `Dean never pointed out that he'd have made a clean kill if his father hadn't ordered him out of the way. Never protested that he was a child who didn't deserve the responsibilities foisted upon him to begin with. Never thought that John might have been defensive and deflecting for his own reasons.`
> 
> `And he never once questioned the wild coincidence that his father should return after three days in the exact moment that the shtriga attacked.`

Sam scrolled back to earlier passages. Things that felt normal when he first read them, but this time, he tried to imagine how they would sound to Mary who never wanted her kids to end up in the hunting life at all, who thought of John Winchester, the good father, as an innocent bystander in that life. 

It was four in the morning. He knew he should wait until dawn before calling Dean, but… maybe Dean couldn't sleep either. What the hell, really? Even if he was asleep, he couldn't be having good dreams.

Sam dialed Dean's phone. It rang three times and he was starting to worry it would go to voicemail when Dean answered.

"You okay?" Dean asked, somehow sounding both concerned and irritated, but not groggy at all.

"We need to talk. I've figured out what Mom's mad about. It's not what you think." _It wasn't you_ , he wanted to say, but he knew Dean would only argue if he gave him that chance. Better to get him curious than defensive. "Please. I know it's early, but can you come over here so we can talk? In person."

"Sam…"

"It's not what you think. I swear. You might even be a little angry yourself when you read what I've read."

"What are you talking about?"

"Please, Dean. This is a conversation for face-to-face. Preferably here where it's prayer-proof, but I'm prepared to come to your room if I have to."

"This better be good." Dean hung up without a good-bye. A few moments later there was a soft knocking at the door.

Dean looked tired, eyes red-rimmed with bags under them. He clearly hadn't slept any more than Sam had.

"Dean, you didn't screw up. Dad did."

Dean shrugged it off, like he always did. His lips pursed and his eyes rolled. He didn't even allow himself half a second to consider that it might not have been his fault.

"Dean, you had a clear shot. You were only nine years old and it wasn't your job in the first place, but you were going to kill the shtriga. If Dad hadn't busted in right then and yelled at you to get out of the way—an order you followed without hesitation—you would have made the headshot, the kill shot. _Dad_ screwed up. Not you."

Dean blinked. He tilted his head as if trying to access the memory. "You can't know that. There's no way you could know what _would_ have happened."

"Yeah, well, _God_ knew. And Chuck wasn't really all that subtle with his narration."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Huh."

"So, maybe a little less self-flagellation, okay?" Sam reached out to cup Dean's head in his hand, but Dean shrugged him off, letting him only feel a tantalizing brush of his hair on his fingertips.

"So, why the hell is she so mad at us then?" Dean demanded, switching instantly from guilt to anger because of course Dean couldn't just be relieved.

"She's not mad at _us_ ," Sam said. "She's not mad at you. She's not mad at me. She's angry at Dad."

"Why would she be mad at Dad? He wasn't even there until the last minute."

" _That's why_ she's mad at him. Dean, Dad left us alone for three days. You were nine years old."

"Maybe ten or eleven," Dean hedged. "I don't remember what year it was."

"You were nine years old," Sam repeated. "It was criminal just leaving _you_ alone for three days, but to leave you in charge of a five-year-old kid? With a shotgun and a bunch of insane instructions how to get to a safehouse if things went bad?"

"Dad did the best he could," Dean said, but it wasn't a full-bodied protest. Even Dean had grown tired of defending their Dad for doing the best he could. _Sometimes his best sucked_. 

"Dean, do you remember all the angst we went through about using that kid as bait to get the shtriga?"

Dean nodded, his eyes darting away, the guilt palpable in the air.

"And the thing is, we didn't put that kid in danger to begin with. The shtriga was coming after him anyway. We could have _tried_ to get him out of town, beyond the creature's reach, but we don't even know if that would have worked. Do you think his Mom would have let us just take her kid because we claimed there was a monster? Who knows what we could have done differently? All we know is that we watched over a kid who was _already_ a target and we both felt guilty as hell about it and he wasn't even our kid."

"What's your point?"

"Dean, Dad _left us alone_ for _three days_ in a town where he _knew_ a shtriga was attacking _kids_. And then he just happened to return the second the thing attacked. Dean, do the math. Dad used us as bait."

"Yeah, so?" Dean's jaw clenched and unclenched a couple of times, but that was the only outward sign that he was upset or surprised by the news. "Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. We've done worse."

Sam sighed and let it go. That wasn't the point and, deep down, he wasn't that shocked either. They both knew what their lives had been like growing up, where John's priorities lay.

"Now imagine you are John Winchester's wife and you think he's the perfect father and you've been playing house in heaven for years and then you read _this_. Huh? Dean, Mom isn't mad at us, she's mad at that fantasy of a perfect husband and father that she's been carrying in her heart all this time. Do you get it? It's not about you. You don't have to beat yourself up over this one? Okay?"

"Okay," Dean said. "We can talk more at breakfast. I need to get some shut-eye."

Dean walked out of the door.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said this was going to be 19 chapters long and then I updated it to 21? Yeah, it's going to be 22 chapters long now.


	16. You Should Write Wedding Vows

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam tried to catch a few hours of sleep before breakfast, but he just tossed and turned, mind racing and full of doubts. His body was also wide awake and ready to go. He really needed to get some sleep before the wedding and post-orgasm was his best chance to clear his mind and drift away. Or maybe that was just his rationalization. He felt weirdly guilty. As if Dean being sulky meant Sam had no right to fantasize about him.

He couldn't even quite settle on a fantasy at first. He tried to put Dean out of his mind and just enjoy the physical pleasure of touching himself, keeping his mental imagery to safely generic sexual topics. He tried picturing women. He even tried picturing whatshisname, that guy from the bar in Florida who made Dean blush with whispered hints of a threesome. That, of course, just put Dean back in his mind and whatshisname simply faded away.

No, not a fade out. That was dull. Sam replayed the scenario. This time it was Dean who ordered the man out of the room, who declared that Sam was his and no one else's. Sam stroked himself faster, picturing Dean possessive and intimidating, forcing the interloper out, swaggering to show Sam who was boss. 

Sam was genuinely annoyed with himself after he came. Dean being bossy? _That_ was his kink? He simultaneously vowed that Dean must never find out while wondering how to talk Dean into giving him what he wanted. It was all such a mess.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam overslept and Mary had already taken off with Castiel and the bridal party by the time he made his way downstairs. He found Dean in the lobby flirting with hotel security.

"That wasn't flirting. It's called covering all your... You know what, I don't even know why I talk to you."

Greg interrupted with a schedule from Byron. It looked like Greg's earlier scenario was likely to play out as predicted. Byron himself wasn't arriving until just before the ceremony and planned to _oversee_ security from the midst of the reception.

It took some careful maneuvering given Dean's aversion to being alone with him, but Sam finally had a chance for a private confab when they got in the car to drive over to the wedding site.

"I've been trying to find info on Landon's ex, Whitney," Sam said. "I haven't found anything solid, but she definitely has a reputation for jealousy and holding a grudge."

"You think she's found a way to summon a Sheepsquatch?" Dean asked.

"Maybe we could swing by her place on the way? Question her if she's there? Search the place if she's not?"

Which it turned out they could do neither of. Whitney lived with her brothers, _both_ of whom were taller than Sam and quite firm that Whitney was not home.

Dean tried to casually bring up the topic of the local White Thing legend, but they both just silently loomed in response.

"Well, that was fun," Dean said as they got back in the car.

"State records show a silver 2012 Ford F-150 registered in her name," Sam said. "We can have Greg keep a lookout. I mean, assuming she has to get close?"

"Which will be useless if all she has to do is some bullshit incantation from home," Dean said.

"Yeah."

"But we still get paid as long as we get through the wedding without an attack?"

"Yeah."

"Sweet," Dean said. "Gotta love a job where all you have to do is half-ass it."

Except he didn't sound like he loved it at all. He sounded as annoyed as Sam felt.

They pulled into the parking lot at the wedding venue to find it already half full of cars.

The wedding day itself made the rehearsal feel like a meditation retreat. It was chaos dialed up to eleven. Caterers and florists and musicians all getting in each other's way, rushing to set up before the sun went down, and tripping over relatives who'd shown up early to _help_ which mostly seemed to consist of setting up beer coolers so that the reception could start early.

Sam and Dean walked around doing their best to stay out of the way while looking intimidating. They didn't expect any trouble until after the sun went down, but the sun was already edging toward the hills.

Dean had barely gotten, "So, do you think—?" out of his mouth before he was interrupted by a shrill scream. A man who might have been a wedding planner or a caterer or perhaps just a bossy relative ran through, pushing his way between Sam and Dean.

"No! No! No! The vegan table cannot go between the meat table and the gluten-free! We went over this before! The meat goes in the middle! Why is this hard to remember?! It's like a sandwich!"

"Oh, my God," Sam said. "I am _never_ getting married."

"What, Sammy, you don't want a 17-tier cake shaped like a princess castle with bride-and-groom fondant cake toppers?" Dean asked. The actual cake was only three or four tiers, but it did look like a fairytale castle and the bride and groom on the top turret were completely out of scale.

"Definitely not bride and groom cake toppers," Sam said.

"No bride in a puffy white dress?"

"Nope."

"Not even an ice sculpture, Sammy?"

"Not even."

"No catered Beef Wellington and champagne?"

"What even is Beef Wellington?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "It's made out of a cow and it's really expensive, so I'm looking forward to trying some."

"I don't get the obsession with cake. Why not wedding pie?" Sam said, smiling at Dean and watching carefully for his reaction. Had Dean even noticed that they'd been flirting for the last five minutes?

Dean sighed. "I don't know why I always forget that you fight dirty." Then he smiled at him despite the comment and for a second there Sam thought they were on the same wavelength.

Greg's voice came over the walkie-talking, "Are you sure that was a _silver_ F-150? I've got one that's kind of gray. I don't think it's quite shiny enough to be called silver exactly."

Dean rolled his eyes and muttered, "Imma have to kill these people," under his breath before getting the location of the pickup truck from Greg.

They drove around the other side of the park and found the truck parked on the side of the road by a nearby trailhead. They split up when the path forked. Dean went left and Sam went right.

The rest was just really anticlimactic.

It turned out Whitney wasn't a witch or in cahoots with demons. She didn't have some mystic way of controlling or summoning a White Thing. She was, in fact, still struggling with the zipper on her Sheepsquatch costume when Sam caught up to her in the bushes.

"Seriously?"

She spooked and dropped her sheep head and tried to make a run for it, but Whitney was even shorter than Courtney and Sam outpaced her in five strides. Also, the tail on her costume was really long and easy to grab.

"Is this a horse's tail?" Sam asked, as confused by her costume choices as anything else.

She huffed in defeat before admitting, "It's a unicorn."

Sam dragged her back, tail-first, to where the head was lying in the dirt. Whitney staggered backward more or less willingly, no fight left in her with her cover blown. Sam picked up the head. On closer inspection, you could see the stub in the center of the forehead where she had sawed off the plastic unicorn horn. The sheep horns she'd added onto the sides were papier-mâché, one of which had cracked when she'd dropped it.

"What was your plan here?" Sam asked.

"Plan?"

"Did you think you could scare Landon out of marrying Courtney?"

"No." Whitney looked genuinely perplexed at the suggestion.

"So, you were just trying to get revenge by ruining the wedding?"

"What? How would this ruin the wedding?"

"Then what was the point?!"

There was no good reason for Sam to lose his cool, but he'd just been having a really emotional couple of days and he was very much at the end of his patience.

So when Whitney just smiled and said, "Because it's funny," Sam kind of lost it.

" _Gahh!!!_ " he yelled. "What is _wrong_ with you?!"

"Oh, come on," Whitney said, hooves on her hips, "You've got to admit it was funny."

"You vandalized a car," Sam said, already feeling like he was losing ground and grasping a little. "That's… illegal."

"A car Landon was about to have body work on anyway," Whitney said.

"What?"

"He hit a possum last week," Whitney said. "He didn't tell you that?"

"No."

"Shit, he's been telling everybody. Thing gets bigger every time he tells it. Damn fool wants you to believe it was as big as a wolf and walked away without a scratch."

"A… monster possum?"

"And then Cody told him he was lucky it wasn't a Sheepsquatch or it might've been a total and City Boy _lost his shit_. So, can I have my head back? I promise it will be really funny."

She smiled at him and blinked innocently.

Dean suddenly burst out of the bushes. He at least didn't have his gun drawn this time, but he was breathing hard from running and he looked a little freaked. In hindsight, Sam probably should have let Dean know he was fine before he started yelling.

So they had to have the entire conversation over again from the beginning for Dean's benefit, and it still ended with Whitney pleading for her head back and promising it was going to be funny.

They trotted her back to the main road where Dean was finally able to get a cell signal and he called Mary to let them know that the Sheepsquatch had been safely wrangled. In a relayed conversation that Sam didn't follow at all, Courtney apparently agreed that it was totally funny and that as long as Whitney waited until _after_ they cut the cake then a Sheepsquatch appearance was awesome.

Thus Dean ended up being the one to tape Whitney's broken horn back together with duct tape from the trunk of the car.

"Really?" Sam asked.

"What?" Dean said with a shrug. "We get paid either way."

Dean spent the whole time while waiting, glowering darkly at Sam as if it were his fault somehow.

Mary called to announce dryly, "The cake has been cut. Release the Sheepsquatch."

And Whitney charged off to the squealing delight of all and somehow no one even tried to shoot her which defied Sam's expectations entirely.

Travis uploaded the video to YouTube before the reception was even over.

Beef Wellington turned out to be kind of interesting, but everybody, Sam and Dean included, preferred the barbecue provided unrequested by Courtney's Uncle Joe. Things wound down to the point where it was pretty much just chicks slow-dancing with each other while the dudes finished off the last of the beers. Byron promised to have their checks in the morning.

And then Dean suddenly leaned in and whispered, "You've been keeping the 'Do not disturb' sign out, right? So housekeeping doesn't wipe down the sigils?"

Sam reassured him that the sigils were still in place and Dean said _good_ and then _grabbed Sam's ass_ before walking away.

So, in summary, Sam hadn't understood a damned thing that had happened all day long, but it seemed to be ending well.

When Mary said, "I'd like to talk to you boys," Sam already had his hand on the Impala's door handle, which in his mind should have counted as safe. The universe wasn't playing by the rules again.

He glanced across the car at Dean who returned a worried look. "Talk," Dean said with a shrug just a hair too tense to be truly casual.

Mary hesitated and then said, "We can do this over breakfast. You'll both be up by say nine?"

"No need to wait until morning," Dean said, smiling politely. It was _not_ a happy sort of smile. Sam's heart started to beat faster.

"Okay," Mary agreed. "We could grab some dessert back at the hotel restaurant."

Dean spread his arms out to indicate both Sam as well as Castiel who had walked up just in time to look like he wished he hadn't. "We're all here now. What's this about?"

Sam could see that same familiar tight smile as Mary straightened her shoulders. Watching Dean and Mary square off was sort of like watching a dog barking at a mirror.

But in the next moment, Mary closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, she said, "I'm _trying_ to apologize."

"For what?" Dean asked without changing his defensive stance the tiniest bit. If there hadn't been a car between them, Sam would have reached over and smacked him in the head.

Mary approached Dean on his side of the car. "Okay, so, just to be clear, I'm not apologizing for focusing on my own problems. No one should have to feel guilty for taking care of themselves. And I'm not apologizing for John, because I'm not responsible for his actions. But I do apologize for how uncomfortable I think I've made both of you since I got back."

Dean's shoulders sort of melted down a couple of inches and he shuffled his feet.

"I've had this fantasy version of your father in my head," Mary continued. "And I've been talking about the man as if he were this perfect memory and you've both been playing along. And I kind of feel a little bit like shit right now, but mostly I feel incredibly angry at someone who isn't here for me to scream at."

"Dad did the best he could under the circumstances," Dean said.

_No he didn't_ , Sam thought.

"No he didn't," Mary said. "Maybe… maybe he _thought_ he was doing his best, convinced himself that the ends justified any means, but… it's not a defense to say he never asked more from you than he asked of himself. He was a grown man and you were _children_. I knew, I knew you started hunting young, but I had no idea _how_ young, how _much_ danger he knowingly put you in and…"

She stopped, looked away, blinked until she had herself under control, and then continued.

"As strange as this might sound coming from your mother, it's not the fact that he risked your lives that bothers me the most. I mean, I've been dead. It's not that bad, y'know? The real kick to the gut is knowing how you were abandoned, scared and alone, over and over again, made to feel it was your fault for not being good enough somehow. I know I can never make that lost time up to you, but I want you to know that you _are_ good enough." She looked over and Sam startled when their eyes met and she added, "You are _both_ more than good enough. I am so sorry I wasn't there for you."

Dean looked like a giant four-year-old when she pulled him into a hug. He gestured over her head at Sam. "Get over here."

Sam walked around the car and approached uncertainly, but Dean grabbed him as soon as he got close enough and yanked him in. Up close, there was no denying that Mary and Dean both had tears in their eyes and Sam fought not to get choked up himself.

An eternity passed in the shared hug and then Dean sighed and said, "Come on, you too."

The next thing Sam knew, he had an angel plastered to his side. It lasted about two seconds beyond weird and then Dean cleared his throat and stepped back and the group hug broke up. Dean managed to pull off an amazingly smooth move like _I just happened to have an itch on the bridge of my nose and you totally imagined it if you thought you saw me wiping away tears_.

"So," Dean said, "are we placing bets on whether we have to kill Byron to get our money?"

"No, no," Mary said. "Never kill someone who owes you money. We just may need to shake him down is all."

Castiel squinted and said, "I thought the whole point of this job was to make money legally. Why are we contemplating violence?"

Sam was a touch unsure if Mary and Dean really thought Byron was going to try to stiff them or if they were both just aggressively changing the subject.

"I'd kind of like to sleep in tomorrow," Sam said. "Can we at least give it until noon before we break anyone's legs?"

"That seems reasonable," Mary said. "Night, boys."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

They both went back to Sam's room, but Dean was quiet and decidedly non-flirtatious. They changed into night clothes and elbowed each other out of the way while brushing their teeth and it all felt _normal_ , but in a tentative way as if it all might break apart at any moment. 

They crawled into bed and turned out the bedside lamps and Sam almost asked a half dozen times if Dean wanted to fool around or at least cuddle, but he decided Dean didn't seem in the mood and he didn't want to push.

It might be their last chance for a bit though. Depending on how late in the day they got their money from Byron, they might be back on the road tomorrow. Even if it was late and they stayed in town one more night, on their own dime they'd almost certainly be switching to a cheaper motel, which meant the tedious process of re-warding, so probably they'd just have to keep their prayers in neutral for a few days until they got back to the bunker and worked something more permanent out. Maybe new tattoos.

"Dude," Dean said, reaching over to pat his shoulder. "You really need to chill."

"Sorry." Sam always had to toss and turn a bit before he got comfortable. He didn't think he was doing it any more than usual, but then he and Dean didn't often share a bed so that probably made it extra annoying. "I'm just a little extra… awake… is all."

Dean scooted closer. "You want a little help with that?"

"Yes, please."

_Was it really that easy?_ Apparently, yes, because Dean just crawled up on top of him and gave him a big wet kiss.

Dean pulled back and looked questioningly into his eyes. "You, uh, you need this a lot, huh?" he asked. "Like, I always thought you had some kind of Spock thing going. Mind over dick or whatever."

"Oh, my God, shut up."

"Don't bring Chuck into this. This is why we had to put up warding."

"Excuse me? Castiel said _you_ are the one who _prays loudly_."

Dean made an ambiguous _hrmph_ noise and effectively distracted Sam for a moment by delicately kissing his jugular notch which Sam had never previously considered a turn-on.

Dean worked his way lower and latched onto one of Sam's nipples. Sam whimpered and, in defiance of all evidence, insisted, "I don't _need_ it. I appreciate physical signs of affection is all. Tactile reassurance and bonding. It's a thing. A hug goes a long way. I'd be mostly fine without any sex."

Dean released his nipple with an audible slurp. "Mostly?" he asked with a cynical smirk.

"Which isn't to say I don't really, really want it," Sam added.

Dean shifted and gave his other nipple an infuriatingly chaste dry kiss. Dean could be so damn stubborn if he didn't think he was getting proper credit.

"Like a lot," Sam admitted. "Like _a lot_ a lot."

Dean shifted position again, his face close to Sam's and a look on his face serious enough that Sam was honestly frightened. That was the look Dean always had before reporting bad news. Sam had seen that face too many times.

"This is a forever thing, Sammy? We're not going to write this off as that one summer we drank too much and went crazy with heat stroke and we never talk about Sammy's pon farr ever again?"

"Forever and ever until we are sick of each other and then I'm still not going away because I love you even when I hate your guts," Sam said.

"That's poetic, man. You should write wedding vows."

"And you?"

"Mom can't ever find out about this," Dean said. He looked scared which wasn't a look Sam saw on Dean's face very often. "We keep a lid on this so tight _no one_ ever finds out. I give zero craps what the angels or demons think of us, but anybody finds out and repeats it to Mom… that just can't happen."

Sam almost pointed out that maybe Dean shouldn't be swatting his butt in public, but realized the only real difference between today and dozens of times before was Sam's guilty conscience. "Agreed."

"'Forever and ever until we are sick of each other and then I'm still not going away because I love you even when I hate your guts,'" Dean repeated. "And I'm not going in for any 'till death do us part' crap either. You don't get away from me that easy."

Sam would end up getting a pretty amazing blowjob that night, but the best part, the thing he'd never forget was _that_ moment because it really was a pretty kickass vow.

"Ditto."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam woke up to the sound of the shower, which was immediately disappointing. His hand searched for Dean across the bed almost of its own accord, Sam already knowing it would find nothing. He grunted in unheard protested and rolled over to stare at the ceiling.

He tried going over the to-do list for the day, but all he was coming up with was _get paid_. They needed to pack up to leave, but packing was something the Winchesters could manage in five minutes if they weren't in any particular hurry and under about fifteen seconds if they were. They were good for laundry for a few more days. Dean had gassed the car up when they'd first arrived in town. They'd need to stock back up on road snacks, but they would do that on their way out of town when they could load the cooler up with ice.

There was pretty much nothing to do until Byron paid them and, last night's leg-breaking jokes aside, that meant waiting politely for the old man.

Sam continued to stare at the ceiling. Over the sound of the shower, he could hear Dean singing an old Anne Murray song and if Dean didn't think Sam was going to rib the hell out of him about that—especially the line that kind of implied Dean was pregnant—he was delusional.

Sam realized there was, in fact, one thing on the to-do list that he could deal with now. He stretched and grabbed his phone. "Hey, Cas, you free now?"

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam and Castiel were sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for him when Dean exited the bathroom several choruses later with only a towel wrapped around his waist. He was brought up a little short by Castiel, but he covered smoothly. "Hey."

Sam did his best to not be bothered too much by the way Castiel's eyes followed Dean around the room.

"Anne Murray?" Sam said. "Really?"

Dean managed to slide his underwear on under his towel without giving Castiel too much of a show. "That was Loggins and Messina. Castiel, put your pop-culture savvy to work and back me up on this."

" _Danny's Song_ was written by Kenny Loggins, first recorded by Loggins and Messina in 1971."

"See, Loggins and Messina. _Your Mama Don't Dance and Your Daddy Don't Rock and Roll._ Classic rock."

"Although," Castiel continued, "it was Anne Murray's 1972 cover version that reached the top ten on both the U.S. pop and country charts."

"Uh-huh," Sam said. "Classic _rock_."

"As well as number one on the easy listening chart," Castiel added.

Sam laughed outright and Dean gave his jeans an unnecessary snap in the air before stepping into them. "If I'm singing sappy songs," he said, "it's your fault."

"And the number one single in Canada," Castiel added.

"Why is he even here?"

"We're trying to work out a more permanent solution to your… prayer problem," Castiel said.

"No luck?" Dean said, reading too much into Sam's face.

"Oh, we can do it," Sam said, "I'm just not entirely sure the side effects are worth it."

"Hey, as long as it works," Dean said, pulling on his shirt. "Priority number one is protecting Mom from this. We have to make sure no one else finds out so that _no one_ tells Mom."

That last was said rather pointedly at Castiel who seemed to get the message because he rolled his eyes with unnecessary flair.

"Dean," Sam said. "Have you ever considered that half the messes we get into were because we didn't even _ask_ about the side effects? Do you remember _the Mark_? I almost lost you. Not just to death, but to pure evil. You tried to kill me. You neglected the car. You—"

"Okay, okay, I get it. What's the catch? Anybody die? Turn evil? We trigger the end of the world again?"

"I would appreciate if you took this more seriously," Castiel said. He sounded cranky. Sam didn't blame him.

"For starters, let's consider the pros and cons of our current solution," Sam said. "Pros, the ingredients aren't that difficult to procure, it's effective, and most importantly it's _painless_. Cons, we can run out of ingredients and be delayed restocking, it's time-consuming, and it can be easily broken if someone opens a window or smudges one of the sigils. Looked at that way, we might want to just stick with the sigils; we just have to be extra careful."

"Plan B is not so much with the painless, huh?" Dean said. "But it works? It's a permanent fix? No one dies or turns evil? Let's do it."

"It involves engraving the spell into your skulls," Castiel said.

Dean winced. "You don't have to shave our heads for that, do you? You can just do a zap like last time with the ribs?"

"He wants to engrave Enochian spells into our _skulls_ and you're worried about your _hair_?" Sam sputtered.

"I'm worried about _your_ hair," Dean said. " _I_ look good with a crew cut. _You_ have a very weirdly-shaped head. It would take a year before it didn't look stupid." Dean sat down on the bed next to Sam and ruffled his hair.

"I do not," Castiel growled, "need to shave your heads, but it _will_ be extremely painful."

"Pain, schmain," Dean said. "Zap us."

Castiel stood and nearly, but not quite, snarled, and before Sam could point out that Dean did not automatically speak for both of them, Castiel put one hand on each of their crowns and Sam felt like his head was on fire.

Dean doubled over, head in his hands, and looked like he might slip off the edge of the bed at any moment. That was Sam's only consolation, knowing Dean was in just as much pain as he was. "God damn it!" Sam shouted. "What did I _just_ say?!" He wanted to give Dean the full lecture that he deserved, but putting the words together was too much. He tried to shift back on the bed so that he could lie down, but the motion made the entire universe tilt sideways.

Sam rolled off the bed and lunged toward the bathroom. He barely got his head over the toilet before he started heaving bile. Great. Nothing worse than convulsive puking on an empty stomach.

Dean was groaning and cursing in the other room, which didn't seem like nearly enough suffering considering this was his fault. "I hate you!" Sam shouted between heaves. "I just want that on record."

Castiel then calmly announced, "Your mother wanted me to let you know that Byron has invited us all to his place this afternoon for a barbecue. With any luck, you'll be able to keep food down by then."

He slammed the door behind him as he walked out. Dean probably hadn't even figured out why he was pissed off.

Sam pulled himself up to the sink and gulped down a handful of water, but it only triggered another round of heaves.

"It's a good thing I love you," he gasped when he was finally back under control, his head merely throbbing in agony, "because you are _such_ an asshole."

"But I'm worth it," Dean gasped, staggering to his feet. Sam could _hear_ the grin in his voice. He had no idea how Dean had managed to keep from vomiting and he hated the idea that maybe Dean really did have a higher pain tolerance than he did.

"Fuck you," Sam said because more articulate arguments were beyond him at that point.

"That's the general idea," Dean said. And then he shoved Sam out of the way and started puking in the toilet.

Sam felt immediately better once Dean was heaving his guts up, and he walked back to bed where he collapsed and buried his face in a pillow. The immediate goal was to block out the light, but if he suffocated to death that would be a nice bonus. Castiel had reassured him earlier that there would be no residual tissue damage, but it still _felt_ like his scalp was on fire and he half expected his hand to come away bloody every time he touched his head.

"You'd think," Dean said, "that he could stick around to heal us."

Sam wasn't sure it worked that way. Maybe Castiel couldn't take away the pain without also healing the engravings he'd just made. Maybe he could, but just didn't. "I don't know if you noticed this, but your boyfriend is mad at us."

"What the hell is he mad about?" Dean's voice sounded closer, but Sam refused to look at him to see. He couldn't help but notice that Dean didn't bother objecting to the _boyfriend_ crack. _Asshole_.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics to the Anne Murray version of "Danny's Song":  
> 
>
>> people smile  
> and tell me I'm  
> the lucky one  
> and we've just begun  
> I think I'm gonna have a son  
> he will be like him and me  
> as free as a dove  
> conceived in love  
> the sun is gonna shine above
>> 
>> [chorus]  
> and even though we ain't got money  
> I'm so in love with ya honey  
> everything will bring a chain of love  
> and in the morning when I rise  
> bring a tear of joy to my eyes  
> and tell me  
> everything's  
> gonna be all right
>> 
>> love a guy who holds the world in a paper cup  
> drink it up,  
> love him and he'll bring you luck  
> and if ya find he helps your mind,  
> better take him home  
> yeah 'n don't you live alone,  
> try to earn what lovers own
>> 
>> [chorus / instrumental riff / chorus]
> 
> The Loggins & Messina version has "she" instead of "he" and "girl" instead of "guy" and has the following additional verses: (In my head, Dean is singing the longer Loggins & Messina version, but with the Anne Murray gender shift.)  
> 
>
>> seems as though  
> a month ago  
> I was quiet and shy  
> never got high  
> oh, I was a sorry guy  
> and now I smile  
> and face the girl that shares my name  
> now I'm through with the game  
> this boy'll never be the same
>> 
>> [chorus]
>> 
>> Pisces Virgo rising is a very good sign  
> strong and kind  
> and the little boy is mine  
> now I see a family where there once was none  
> now we've just begun  
> yeah we're gonna fly to the sun
>> 
>> [chorus]
> 
> Dean is 100% full of shit when he tries to claim either version is a rock song. 


	17. Because We're Stupid?

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

By the time that Mary was ready to leave for Byron's place, Sam's stomach had settled. Practice in front of the mirror verified that he could almost pass for normal, although his left eye still had a tendency to twitch. The migraine phase had passed and left him achy and tired, his head thudding dully. The pain was down to about a Winchester five, which he figured was a nine-point-seven on the normal people pain scale.

As the four of them walked out of the hotel together, Mary headed towards her own car, but Dean said, "Let's save gas and take one car." 

And then he _held out the car keys_ as if offering to let anyone else drive his Baby was an even remotely normal thing.

Mary seemed too pleased to notice. "For old times' sake, I suppose I could take her around the block."

Castiel took shotgun without even asking and that left Sam and Dean in the back. Sam carefully folded himself into the seat behind Mary and tugged the door closed. Dean offered him a weak smile, which he refused to return on principle.

Despite the pain, he was starting to drift off from sheer exhaustion when they arrived. 

It was really just as well that he had no appetite because the supposed barbecue that Byron had promised turned out to be wedding reception leftovers. Dean occasionally poked at the food on his increasingly soggy paper plate. If Dean wasn't eating it, you knew the food was bad. Sam managed a few forkfuls with the idea that if he ended up puking again, it was better to do it with food in his belly than to risk more painful dry heaves. Even so, he found it easiest to avoid looking at the food and let his eyes wander around Byron's backyard.

Despite entertaining on the cheap, Byron seemed to have expensive taste in the personal comforts. He had a spacious yard with a pool and a volleyball net and the back deck extended to include a barbecue pit (used only to re-heat the leftovers) and a long picnic table where they all sat. Greg was there as well, looking a bit uncomfortable at being caught between Mary and Byron's wife Annette.

Annette's white hair was twisted up into something that looked like it owed its existence to an architect rather than a hairdresser and every time the breeze fluttered, she tapped at it delicately as if a single hair could possibly have moved.

Mary hadn't fessed up to being dead for thirty years and Byron, who surely had to be half-blind, introduced her to his wife as a hunter from the old days. Thus Annette was left to stew enviously over this strange woman who looked half her alleged age.

For whatever reason, Mary wasn't doing anything to assuage the increasingly hostile atmosphere. Meanwhile, Castiel refused to make eye contact with Dean. Byron was making some sort of excuse about standard business practices. And Greg was babbling something about banking hours. Dean was frowning at Greg and then shifted his scowl to Byron. Sam gradually came to the conclusion that _honest_ work wasn't worth the effort. He was too tired to follow the details, but it seemed as though Byron was trying to put off paying them until Monday, knowing full well they'd planned to leave town today.

The Winchesters did not have the kind of faith in humanity that sustained a _the check is in the mail_ kind of business arrangement.

"We were clear we work for cash," Sam said.

Greg flinched and Annette startled and even Byron looked a little wary. Sam belatedly realized he'd used his fork to gesture at Byron. He made the effort to pull back into his own personal space, but he didn't bother to apologize. It wasn't as if he could just say, _Sorry that I'm a little gruff. I had my skull engraved earlier so angels can't eavesdrop when my brother and I have sex and my head still hurts._

"Seriously, Byron," Dean said, in a voice even deeper than usual. "I know you've been out of the hunting game for awhile so you don't really know who we are. But ask around. There are demons and witches and demigods out there who know better than to doublecross us."

"Is that some kind of threat," Annette huffed.

"Yes," Mary said, nodding in a slow deliberate fashion that suggested she thought Annette was a touch dense.

Annette started sputtering and Byron was making placating sounds, but Sam couldn't make out anything specific because just then Dean's pocket started singing.

_"Lord, I was born a ramblin' man_  
_Tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can_  
_And when it's time for leavin'_  
_I hope you'll understand_  
_That I was born a ramblin' man"_  


Dean slowly pulled out his cellphone and held up a finger for silence. They had a simple system for identifying incoming calls, but Sam's head was too muddled to connect the song to the artist.

Fortunately, Dean was the Wikipedia of American music. Without hesitation, he answered, "Allman here. Yeah... What? Run that by me again... The local cops were supposed to be on this. How... Oh. Okay then. We are just wrapping up another case. If we head down there now…" Dean glanced at his watch and rolled his eyes. "Straight shot with no stops, we're lucky if we can get there by dawn. All right, see you then."

Dean hung up, rubbed his eyes wearily, and ignoring the others told Mary, "So if we're going to pop this guy's kneecaps, we need to do it sooner rather than later, because… feel free to say _I told you so_ … it wasn't the projector after all."

Dean stepped away from the table and made another phone call. In the background, Sam could hear him making an appointment with the police in Florida, _demanding_ an appointment more accurately. "…you _will_ have that surveillance video available, a witness list, and no more crap stories about gang initiations…"

Mary seemed content to let Dean deal it and gave it one last shot at getting their money. She nodded at Sam with a head-tilt toward Byron. Sam stood and did his best to loom menacingly.

Sam knew they were bluffing. If Dean was promising they'd be in Florida in the morning, it meant they were leaving the minute he hung up the phone.

Castiel followed Sam's lead and stood as well. His expression was one of confusion and general annoyance, but that passed for angry and threatening so it worked.

Mary remained sitting. She leaned across the picnic table towards Byron and said in the sweetest voice Sam had ever heard, "We're are leaving now with all the money you promised us _and_ a substantial cash bonus for the inconvenience involved in collecting. You do not want me to describe the _or else_ option."

Sam had a nagging feeling that Byron didn't even have the money. Annette left the table and rushed into the house. Sam figured there was a good chance she was calling the police. He got Dean's attention and tilted his head towards the road. Dean nodded, acknowledging he knew they might have to make a run for it in a moment.

Annette stalked back out of the house and slammed a money clip full of bills on the table in front of Mary.

"Is that real silver?" Mary asked. "Silver always comes in useful."

Byron tried to protest, "The money clip is not included and that's twice what--" but Annette interrupted.

"Keep the clip. With an extra bonus for _never seeing you again_ ," Annette said.

"Deal," Mary said, snatching up the cash as she stood up. "Let's go, boys."

At some point in the meantime, Dean had gotten off the phone, so that meant Castiel was the slowest one to get to the car. That put him in the backseat with Dean because Sam had taken the shotgun position out of habit and Mary hadn't hesitated before hopping in the driver's seat.

"That went well," Mary said cheerfully, and apparently not even sarcastically, as she drove back to the hotel.

"Just say _I told you so_ already and get it over with," Dean groaned from the backseat.

"I never said it _wasn't_ the projector," Mary said. "That honestly would have been my first guess."

Sam felt like he was being patted on the head for trying. "But there was another death?"

"Just now," Dean said. "That was Carl on the phone. Thanks to the police sting, they have witnesses who claim they can identify the killer _and_ surveillance video from at least two angles. But a theater full of cops still didn't stop the latest death."

"What happened?" Sam asked, surprised Dean hadn't offered any gory details yet.

"Wait," Mary said, focusing on the more important point, "they _saw_ a killer? That doesn't sound like a cursed object at all."

"Saw and _identified_ the killer," Dean repeated.

"They know who it was?" Sam asked.

"Yup," Dean said, still not offering what he knew, but there was an all-too-familiar smugness to his tone.

"Who?" Sam asked.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Sam turned around in his seat to see if Dean were joking, but he only looked tired. "Alec Guinness or Ewan McGregor?"

"I didn't actually ask, but based on their vintage film stash, I'm going to guess Sir Alec."

There was a hint of a smirk forming on Dean's lips. He wasn't volunteering information, but he clearly wanted Sam to guess.

"Lightsaber?" Sam asked.

"Lightsaber," Dean said with a nod. "Remember that detective who kept swearing that none of the deaths were related? Sliced him clean in half."

"Saying _I told you so_ to a dead guy is very unsatisfying," Sam said.

Dean nodded again.

Mary pulled into the hotel parking lot alongside her car and they all got out.

Dean told Sam, "Go grab our stuff and we're outta here," while reaching for his car keys from Mary. Despite his headache, he really _was_ about to pull an all-nighter behind the wheel. Sam wasn't even a little bit enthusiastic about the idea, but Mary seemed as determined as Dean and arguing with both of them was a lost cause.

Mary gave Dean back his keys without a fight, although the glint in her eye suggested it was a near thing. Sam and Mary headed inside. Mary went to grab her things and Sam turned the other way towards his room.

Sam gathered up their belongings, wondering belatedly if Mary would think it was weird that Dean wasn't getting his own stuff since she assumed he was staying in a separate room. They hadn't been there long, so very little had actually strayed out of their bags, but Sam gave the room a quick once over just to be sure.

As he carried their bags back to the parking lot, he was actually starting to feel good about the trip. He and Dean needed to talk and, as taciturn as Dean could be in one of his moods, he always appreciated Sam keeping the conversation going on an all-night drive when the road hypnosis made it far too easy to fall asleep at the wheel. Sam might not get anywhere during daylight hours, but sometime between three and five in the morning Dean would start talking and wouldn't be able to stop.

Except… "Son of a bitch!"

"Excuse me?" Mary put her hands on her hips in an exaggerated huff. They were going to have to work at purging that insult from their vocabulary, at least when directed at each other in earshot of their mother.

"He left without me," Sam said, staring at the empty parking space in disbelief.

"Hey, my ride might not be as sleek as the Impala, but she'll get us there," Mary said.

"But I've got his bag," Sam said, holding it out as evidence.

"He won't need it until we hit Florida," she said reasonably. "Put your bags in the back. Let's go."

He glanced around for Castiel. "And Cas?"

"Riding with Dean."

Sam gave up. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Castiel really was the one Dean needed to talk to when he finally opened up in those hours before dawn. What was done was done. Sam would just make the best of some quality time with his mother. 

And then Sam was going to stab Obi-Wan Kenobi in the face with his own lightsaber so it was all good.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Sam got his mother to grudgingly switch and let him drive about an hour down the road when they stopped for coffee and to top up the tank. She initially declined, but Sam countered with, "So, you'd rather that I take the night shift? I can do that." 

It was a shameless ploy that nearly always worked on Dean. Just about the only way Sam ever got behind the wheel was by pointing out a more difficult stretch of road further along on the trip. Mountain driving, approaching storm… whatever, Dean would nearly always counter with an offer for Sam to take the wheel for the boring, flat, daylight driving for a few token hours.

Sam wasn't sure how Mary had managed to imprint so much of her personality onto Dean in the first four years of his life, but it came in handy.

"Actually…" Mary said changing her mind and handing Sam her keyring. He felt a little smug about how easy it was, but it was tempered by the knowledge that she would just as predictably get those keys back by nightfall.

It was a nice trip overall. Mary only played the radio a tiny bit too loudly and, while there was significant overlap in tastes, she had a few songs on her playlist that Dean hadn't already played to death. Easy driving and only three construction slowdowns in West Virginia and North Carolina combined.

The police were out in force though, filling up their ticket quotas on a pleasant sunny day, so Sam kept it on the edge of the speed limit. He imagined Dean must be pulling farther and farther ahead, but just past the state line between the Carolinas, he passed a cop car on the side of the road that had pulled over a black Impala. _Best. Day. Ever._

Sam hooted and Mary laughed, but she seemed to be mainly laughing at Sam. "I love how smoothly you and your brother slip back and forth from cooperative to competitive."

Sam hadn't thought it was unusual. It was just a brother thing. But it was certainly true. 

His competitive instincts reared again when Mary wanted to stop and top off the tank before midnight. He knew she'd take over driving at that point, which he was mostly okay with, but he feared Dean would get ahead of them, which was disappointing because he really wanted to see Dean's face if they made it there first.

But the tank was low and Mary played the lady-bladder card and he had to agree to stop.

When they got back in the car, Mary surprised Sam by leaving the music off and they talked the rest of the way. The conversation started out light and vague. Did Sam prefer winter or summer? ("The fall mainly.") What did Sam do to stay busy when they weren't on a job? ("Look for the next job.") Did he and Dean ever take separate vacations to get some space? ("Yeah, all the time. We call that fighting.") 

And then it segued into more serious territory that he couldn't give simple one sentence answers to. She wanted to know about Chuck, which pretty much covered the whole nature of the universe. And Sam overshared by mentioning things after Chuck stopped writing and disappeared for years.

"So, this woman Becky dumped _God_ for _you_?"

"Chuck claimed _he_ dumped _her_ , but, yeah, I wouldn't really take his word on that."

"Does she know that she dumped _God_?"

"I don't think so.."

"Someone should tell her," Mary said. "That would be a hell of an ego boost."

Seeing as how he'd just finished telling Mary the story of the love spell Becky had put him under, he didn't see why she thought Becky deserved an ego boost. "I think Becky has more than enough confidence."

"Oh, no. Confident people do not put other people under a love spell. That's desperation. It's sad really. On the other hand, if she realized she was too good for _God_ …"

"You're kind of overselling Chuck," Sam pointed out.

They were on track to make their destination by around six in the morning, but when they hit the Florida line, the world turned into one massive construction zone. One of the southbound lanes was shut down and the speed limit dropped. Orange construction barrels lined the road and blurred together in the night. Sam was starting to feel a little drowsy himself and Mary got extra chatty as a means of staying awake.

They exchanged theories on the case and she grilled him about how thoroughly they'd searched for hex bags. "We'll figure something out," Sam said. "We always do."

"You and Dean are quite the team."

The topic came back to Dean more than once and Sam wasn't always sure whether it was Mary or himself who'd done it. He brought himself up short when he realized he was, once again, gushing about Dean like he was some knight in shining armor, telling Mary tales of vampires and shapeshifters and unnamed monsters and how his hero Dean had vanquished them all. It might not have been _quite_ that bad, but it was still embarrassing.

"You love him a lot," Mary said.

"Too much," Sam said and then bit his tongue.

He expected her to ask what he meant by that, but she let it slide and instead said, "Things have seemed a little tense between you two recently though."

Sam noticed that his head didn't hurt anymore and he wasn't sure when it had stopped. The exhaustion of injury had given way to the exhaustion of a sleepless night on the road which was—predictably in Sam's experience—giving way to a second wind. He had a job to look ahead to and, even though it carried the guilt of not having gotten it right the first time, it also gave him a purpose to focus on.

"It'll work out… somehow… maybe," Sam said. His energy was coming back with that second wind, but his brainpower wasn't. "Or it won't and we just move on pretending everything's fine."

"What exactly isn't fine?"

He could tell her about the warding. There was no need to hide it and she'd find out eventually. "We thought it would be a good idea to ward against angels. I know they're supposed to be the good guys, but sometimes… most of the time… not so much. So Dean came up with something, but it was the kind of thing that could be easily broken with one sigil being smeared. So Castiel mentioned another possibility that would permanently protect us from any accidental prayers from being overheard."

"Accidental prayers? How do you pray accidentally?"

"I'm not even sure how you pray on purpose," Sam admitted. "If I'm trying to get Castiel's attention, I'll say his name. That seems to work when he isn't willfully ignoring me, but I don't think it's strictly necessary. Castiel talks about a constant background hum of prayer so they can't all be formal _Angel of the Lord, hear me_ sort of thing. Angels might not pay attention without their name being invoked, but I get the idea that they are capable of hearing pretty much any intense appeal or devotion."

"Okay, creepy, I'll grant you. What went wrong?"

"We'd barely started to even discuss it and Dean just… jumped in without looking first like he always does. So now Dean and I are prayer-proof and we can't even pray to Castiel if we need to in an emergency."

"So, that's what Cas was so sulky about," Mary muttered.

"Yeah. Cas is sulky. Dean is sulky. I'm sulky. Everybody's sulky."

Mary let it go and they talked hauntings for the next two hours. Vengeful spirits versus echo spirits. Sam and Dean hadn't encountered many of the latter, even though they were allegedly more common. Echo hauntings were unnerving, but hardly ever dangerous the way vengeful spirits were. He told her about when Bobby died and how he gradually began to lose himself to anger and revenge.

"You'd agree that it's a combination of building anger and growing power that makes older spirits the most dangerous?" Mary said.

"The way Bobby told it, anger is what gave him power," Sam said. "Old spirits are sometimes the angriest. Decades or centuries for grudges to fester. But not always."

It was a little weird having his mother ask him questions about hunting as if he knew any more about it than she did. Was it possible that he did? It kind of messed with his head to realize that, depending on how you counted it, they were older than their own mother now. And he and Dean had started hunting younger. He actually _did_ have more years on the job.

Not that she was any more likely than Dean to stop pulling rank. Sam figured he was trapped being the baby of the family forever.

Still. She was far from a novice. He wasn't sure if she really wanted his opinion or if she was just going out of her way to include him in the conversation or if asking questions was her way of thinking out loud, but he was leaning toward that last one. She asked a lot of questions that he was pretty sure she already knew the answer to.

"A recently-deceased spirit can be just as dangerous as an older spirit provided it's angry enough?" she asked only that one didn't sound like a genuine question either, just more thinking out loud. "But then they peak and fade. Doesn't it seem like that? Lots of ghosts of people who died fifty or a hundred years ago, sometimes a few hundred, but rarely older."

"Well, you still hear stories about ancient Native American burial grounds," Sam said, knowing full well most of those stories were exaggerated, fabricated entirely, or tied to spell magic and not genuine hauntings, "or Roman soldiers still fighting in Europe."

"More echo hauntings," Mary said, shaking her head. "Those barely count. Vibrations through time—"

" _If_ that's what they really are," Sam said. The idea that places _remembered_ seemed a bit romanticized to him.

"—don't count as a proper haunting in my book," she finished. "Do you think it's because people just can't stay mad for more than two or three hundred years? Their powers fade as their anger fades?"

"Dean could stay mad for longer than that," he said confidently.

"No, he couldn't," she said with equal confidence. "Dean _speaks_ in absolutes, but he has a very forgiving heart."

She wasn't wrong exactly, but she wasn't exactly right either. "If only he could forgive himself."

"Does he still blame himself for his time in Hell?" she asked. "He lasted thirty years. No one else could have lasted as long."

"Dad did."

"Says who? Alistair?" Mary asked. "Do you believe the word of a demon?"

"Have you read all the books now?" Sam asked, still not sure what Chuck had included in all of them. 

She shook her head. "A lot of them. I'm still catching up."

"You know about the seals? The first seal was the righteous man shedding blood in Hell. They meant that to be Dad, but he never broke."

"I used to believe your father was a righteous man," Mary said softly. "The man I fell in love with, the man I married, the man who held his baby sons in his hands and cried with joy, that man was righteous. That man would never torture another creature."

Sam nodded, waiting for clarification. There was a _but_ lurking there somewhere.

"John Winchester wasn't broken in Hell," Mary said. "He broke long before. The man who abandoned his own children for days or weeks at a time, the man who used those children as bait, the man who berated them for failed expectations that grown men could not meet, the man who would sacrifice everything for revenge, _that_ man was not righteous. That man wouldn't hesitate."

Her logic made perfect sense except for... "You're underestimating his stubbornness," Sam said, perhaps grasping at straws. "He wouldn't give Alistair the satisfaction of giving in."

"Neither would Dean, but thirty years of torture… it would be pure insanity by then. Dean can't blame himself for that. He was barely Dean anymore. But that's not what I think happened to your father. Do you want to know what I think happened?"

Sam did and he didn't. Deeply curious, but knowing he'd regret hearing it. 

He waited. She said nothing. 

The construction zone finally ended and the car sped up as she hit open road. He finally asked. "What do you think happened?"

"John went to Hell and they tortured him and he screamed in agony and he spat in their faces every chance he got and then, at the end of that first day, Alistair taunted him with the offer and I'm trying to imagine Alistair's reaction when John said yes."

Sam blinked. "The first day?" he repeated.

"The first day. If he'd lasted any longer than that the stubbornness would have kicked in exactly as you said. But the first day, the first offer, he wouldn't have even thought of it as giving in. Cheating Alistair out of decades of torture, _that_ was his defiance. And the job? That would have been the dream promotion. Torturing the wicked? How often does an innocent person go to Hell? It would have been so easy to rationalize. John Winchester getting to exact revenge on bad guys for a hundred years. He probably loved it."

"It was always Dean," Sam whispered. "Dean was always the righteous man."

"He always was a good kid," Mary said, false cheer in her voice, an attempt to lighten the conversation.

Sam's mood couldn't be so easily lifted. "How do I get him to believe that? I want him to know that he's a good person, that he deserves forgiveness, that he deserves to be loved… when some days I have trouble believing it about myself."

"And _that_ is what I'm so pissed at John about," Mary said. "You're both so indoctrinated in this _I can't ever be good enough_ mindset. You literally saved the world. _More than once._ Sometimes it got messy along the way, but you have _nothing_ to be ashamed of."

Shame. Well, that was something his mother had no way of understanding.

"Trust me," Sam said. "We've done _plenty_ to be ashamed of that can't be rationalized by any battle against evil."

"Is this about the incest thing?" Mary asked.

Sam stopped breathing. He couldn't look at her. If he looked at her, it was game over. Mustering the most innocent voice he could, he said, "The what?"

"You know I'm not stupid, right?"

"I… what?"

"I knew from the moment that I got back that there was something a little _intense_ about your relationship with Dean. And then tracking down Chuck's unpublished texts, the easiest archive to find them was…"

"I'm going to kill Becky."

" _More than brothers_ is a very good way to phrase it."

"But none of that was true! Chuck's stuff, published or not, yeah, okay, eerily dead on, but _none_ of the fanfiction, _none_ of that's real!"

"Castiel refers to it as the Apocrypha. He said it contains hidden insights."

"The Apocr...? Hidden insi…? Mom, the fanfiction isn't real!"

"It raises a lot of interesting points though," Mary said, "and then you go back and re-read the books and... it's kind of obvious."

"But we never...!"

Mary snorted and rolled her eyes at him, but immediately turned her attention back to the road.

"You know that chasing Dean back to his room the other night was a test, right?" Mary said. "He didn't stay in that room more than two minutes."

"Really?" Sam said, still going through the motions. There was no way they were having this conversation. "I wonder where he could have gone. You should ask him that."

"Have you _read_ the Carver Edlund books?" she asked. "Really read them? There's a lot in between the lines. Chuck's writing wasn't exactly nuanced."

"But we weren't even doing anything back then!"

_Shit!_ That might as well have been a signed confession.

"When? After you lost your soul? Many soulless humans go on immediate murder sprees. The fact that you only—"

"No, not even then," Sam protested, unsure why the timing mattered. He was still guilty of the very thing she was suggesting and he didn't even have the excuse of a truant soul to blame it on. "It was recent, like _just_ recently. Never before we got fake drunk on fake daiquiris."

"Seriously?" She seemed more surprised by that than his confession. "Why did it take so long?" 

Sam blinked. "Because we're stupid?"

He turned and looked at his mother to verify that she did not seem to be freaking out at all. In fact, she just nodded, apparently agreeing that they were idiots to have waited for so long.

"You're not mad?"

"I'm mad," she agreed. "I'm mad I died. I'm mad your father descended into a rageful obsession. I'm mad that in the deadbeat dad category, Chuck makes your father look like Andy Taylor raising Opie. I'm mad that there are so many monsters loose in the world. But you and Dean finding intimacy and love with each other? Maybe being dead changes your priorities, but that doesn't even crack my top-fifty of things that bother me."

"Huh." He needed space, air, time to think, but they hit another construction zone and despite the late hour, traffic ground to a crawl.

Mary tried to talk about ghosts and witches, but Sam's mind wasn't in the game, so mainly she told stories of old jobs she'd worked and Sam made encouraging noises while not really listening.

Eventually, they came across the flashing lights that explained the traffic delay. Some idiot, maybe drunk, had decided to take a shortcut around the construction barriers only to find the warning signs hadn't been there for the heck of it. They came to a dead stop waiting while the tow-truck maneuvered the wrecked car back upright.

It had been a good half hour since Sam last spoke. "I'm in love with Dean and you're okay with that?"

"Yeah."

"I'm in love with Dean in inappropriate _physical ways_ and you're okay with that?"

"I don't need details," Mary said, sounding a bit uncomfortable for the first time. "I'll make a deal with you. You never tell me any specifics about your sex life and I never tell you when I finally get Castiel to take the hint."

"Castiel doesn't take hints," Sam said automatically. "But point taken."

"Direct approach?"

Never in a million years could Sam ever predict a scenario in which giving his mother tips to seduce Castiel would be the less uncomfortable option.

The tow-truck finally got the wreck off the road and traffic began to flow again almost immediately. Sam idly analyzed the skid marks to guess at which point the driver had finally realized he had a choice between swerving back into traffic or taking on a gravel pile like one of the Dukes of Hazzard, which wasn't a great option without stunt cars and cut-away video edits. 

Gravel Pile: 1. Duke Boys: 0.

Mary spent only about twenty minutes driving at her preferred speed before pulling over to gas up. This time they went for sugar instead of caffeine to keep their energy going.

Sam already had a feeling that Dean had made up time and gotten ahead of them at the last pit stop and if he made it through the last construction zone before the accident then there was no chance of catching up now. So instead of bothering to get straight back on the road, they pulled into the side parking lot and stretched their legs while drinking slushies. 

The sun wasn't up yet and it was already uncomfortably humid. It was going to be an awful day.

"Am I a bad mother if I still love him?" Mary asked, pacing along the cracked sidewalk at the side of the building. She watched her feet as she kicked at weeds growing up through the broken cement and didn't look at Sam.

For a moment, he thought she was talking about the angel crush, but that didn't fit _'still'_. "Dad?"

She looked up and nodded sheepishly. "He was such a great guy once. I wish you'd known him then. But then I think I'm just making excuses to defend the jerk who hurt my boys and…"

"Of course you love him," Sam said, walking over and reaching an arm around her shoulders. " _I_ still love him. Dean still loves him. Dad wasn't a bad guy. He was just a little single-minded, a little… insane with it. He fucked up sometimes. Who hasn't? One thing Dean and I have proven repeatedly is that you can love someone with all your heart and still be pissed at them. Loving Dad doesn't mean we pretend he was a saint and being angry at him doesn't mean we didn't love him. John Winchester was complicated."

There should have been soft violins in the background. Maybe a piano. Mary slurped at her slushie.

There probably should have been more hugging as well. Instead, Sam peeled his arm off of Mary's bare shoulders where the sweat had stuck their skin together and awkwardly patted her on the back.

"So, here's what I'm thinking," Mary said, pausing for another slurp. "We wrap this up and then we go check out Tahoe Tessie."

"Assuming Tahoe Tessie is anything more than a marketing ploy, it has never hurt anyone. Why—?"

"Did you know that some summers it's cool enough in the mountains above Lake Tahoe that they get snow in June?"

Sam held his slushie to his neck in the hopes of chilling his blood. "We _totally_ have to go check out Tahoe Tessie after this."

Mary surprised him, again, this time by tossing him the car keys. "The magic rectangle of the future says there are no more construction zones and you can get us there by sun-up if you obey the speed limit. Think you can beat that?"

Sam tossed his slushie cup into the trash. "Challenge accepted."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	18. The Old Woman Who Swallowed A Fly

°•°♥°•°♥°•°  


Sam pulled into the parking lot at the police station, but with no sign of the Impala they circled around and parked at a doughnut shop in a strip mall down the street. Dawn was still a hope below the horizon, so Sam felt he'd won the challenge even if Dean wasn't there to gloat over. He texted Dean, `[Taking scenic rte? Already here.]` And then included the address of the shop.

There was a small counter with barstools along the front window, but no other seating as the shop clearly catered to a mainly carry-out clientele, but he and Mary got coffee and claimed a couple of barstools and then took turns changing clothes in the single unisex toilet.

By the time Castiel and Dean straggled in, Sam and Mary, though visibly tired, were passably professional.

"If you drove something a little more fuel-efficient, you wouldn't have had to stop for gas so often," Sam teased.

"It's not a race," Dean said, and then he gave Sam a very subtle headshake when Mary wasn't looking. Sam couldn't imagine what else Dean and Castiel could have done to delay their trip that he would want to keep secret from their mother.

Actually, a jealous little voice in the back of his head could totally come up with several ideas, but he didn't think any of them were realistically likely and, also, he was most emphatically not going to have a jealous snit. Whoever else Dean was or wasn't screwing, Sam always had and always would have his heart. Sam was not the jealous type anyway.

"Are you all right?" Castiel asked. "You look… distressed."

"I'm fine," Sam said.

"Are you sure you—"

"I'm fine."

Dean also changed into what Sam now thought of as his _Book of Mormon_ outfit and then got coffee. Castiel was rumpled FBI by default, but they at least convinced him to ditch the trench coat.

"Seriously, man, you walk into a Florida police station this time of year dressed like that and you'll be pissing into a cup faster than you can say, 'I'm not high; I'm just pretentious.'"

They all sat down and silently drank their coffee. Mary even finished off a second cup and then made another pit stop.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Dean piped up, "So, Castiel and I worked out a fix."

"Did you have to explain to him that he was cut off from you or did he finally work it out for himself?" Sam asked Castiel, sounding snippier than he meant to. 

"Hey, now," Dean said. "I'm not an idiot."

"I pointed it out to him," Castiel said.

"And your fix?" Sam asked.

Dean undid a few buttons in the middle of his chest and tugged his tie to the side to show Sam the expanse of pink over his sternum. Sam wasn't sure what he was supposed to be looking at. If there were any kind of marking there, it had faded to only mildly inflamed.

Sam shrugged at Dean.

Dean huffed and buttoned his shirt up. "Direct line to Castiel. No eavesdroppers."

"Is this communication at will or…?"

"All prayers," Castiel said.

"So we've blocked out all the other angels, but your boyfriend will still be listening every time you have an orgasm?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Dean said.

"Sorry. Correction. _Mom's_ boyfriend will be listening every time you have an orgasm."

"He's not Mom's boyfriend either," Dean insisted. "She can't just call dibs like that. It's insulting. He's his own person. Angel. Whatever. Cas, just zap him."

Castiel reached out towards Sam's chest, but Sam slapped him away. "For the last time, Cas, Dean does not make decisions for me. I'm my own person too." He huffed and turned to his brother. "Dean, I swear, you're like the old woman who swallowed a fly. Your entire life is this chain of overreactions to fix the previous overreaction."

"He's used to it," Dean said. "He's an angel. Eavesdropping on people's private lives is what he does. This is no different than before."

Castiel's jaw tightened slightly, but Sam didn't think Dean noticed and before Sam could prompt him for more information, Mary was back.

She bought four dozen doughnuts before they left. "No one looks at your badge that closely when you bring doughnuts," she said.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°  


No one asked to see Agent Harry's badge at all when she walked in with two large double-dozen boxes of doughnuts asking for Detective Colby.

Agent Bey held his badge aloft helpfully, but no one looked at it once let alone twice, which was good since Sam had no idea what name was actually printed on the thing.

They were directed to the bullpen with a growing following of police sniffing after them.

The late Detective Johnson's photograph filled the computer monitor at his desk. His inbox was empty except for a floral arrangement that struck Sam as inappropriately cheery. That desk was otherwise bare and it would have been the most convenient place to put the doughnuts, but they didn't want to disrupt the shrine effect that the other detectives had attempted to create. Failed, most definitely, but attempted.

"Detective Colby?" Mary said.

Colby looked up. He blinked at them wearily. He made no attempt to stand or shake hands.

Someone behind Sam said, "The FBI brought doughnuts," in a hopeful sort of way.

"Oh. Yeah, okay. Uh, over there is good," Colby said waving vaguely at whatever was on the other side of the crowd of people closing in. "By the coffee."

Mary was relieved of the boxes post-haste. The crowd followed the doughnuts.

"Our condolences on your partner's death," Dean said.

Colby glanced at the giant face of Johnson glowing at the next desk. He started to say something and then shrugged.

"Did he have a family?" Sam asked, trying to pull Colby out of his fog.

"A mom and sister that he didn't talk to. An ex-girlfriend and kid who'd moved out of state. I don't think there'll be anybody but cops at the funeral."

"Detective Colby, I know this is difficult," Mary said, "but we need to talk about the case. Were you there when your partner was killed? Did you see what happened?"

Colby nodded and then shook his head and then nodded again.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes a little too dramatically, but Mary held up a hand to signal him to hold back, to give Colby a little time.

"I was there," Colby said. "I was next to him, right next to him. I mean like not _right_ next to him because we were never _those_ kind of partners, you know. We left an empty seat between us, like you do."

"Oh, my God, no homo, we get it," Dean said. "And?"

"I didn't see anything."

Sam blinked. "You didn't see _anything_? Sitting next to him?"

"With an empty seat between us."

"Got that part," Dean said. "We were told there were witnesses who I.D.'d a certain Jedi knight."

"That was the video," Colby said, lowering his voice. "It was like he _wasn't there_. No one saw him. _No one._ But he was on the video."

"We'd like to see this video," Mary said.

"Okay, but not here." Colby nodded again, more decisively this time. He finally stood up. "Let's go, uh, this way."

He led them to a back room filled with computers and monitors and cables. An air conditioning unit was audibly running, but the room still felt warm. There were two men working at stations on opposite sides of the room, a white man in jeans and T-shirt with stringy brown hair below his shoulders and a black man in a white button-down shirt and tie. In deference to the temperature, his sleeves were rolled up and his suit jacket hung on the back of his chair, but he had the aura of authority. His shoes were polished to a noticeable shine and Sam could easily imagine him standing in a pulpit about to deliver the Sunday sermon. A glance back at Jeans-dude revealed he was wearing frayed sneakers that might have once been black-and-white, but were now faded-gray-and-grimy-gray.

"This is tech," Colby said, keeping his introductions strictly impersonal. "This is the FBI. They want to see the video from the theater of Johnson's… end."

"Thought this was Richards and Rivera's case now," Jeans-dude said.

Both techs squinted at them suspiciously and before anyone could ask for a badge, Sam thumbed over his shoulder and said, "We brought doughnuts."

Jeans-dude skittered out the door without another word as the other man called after him, "Bring me back a glazed!" He stood and offered his hand. "Hastings."

They each shook his hand, in turn, offering their FBI pseudonyms.

"Rivera asks, we didn't show you a damn thing." He then sat back down and pulled up the footage in question. "We had body cams as well as two wall-mounted cameras. We should have a dozen shots of this, but he was sitting near the back of the theater, so we don't have that many angles on it. The wall-mount at the back of the theater looking forward had this…"

The image on the screen showed the theater from a slightly lower angle than Carl's view from the projection room. It showed the front two-thirds of seats and the movie screen in the background where Obi-Wan and Darth Vader squared off.

"Keep your eye here," Hastings said, pointing at the bottom edge of the screen. As Obi-Wan and Darth traded blows on screen, there was a red glow at the back of the theater.

"That's it?" Mary said.

"And this is from Colby's body cam," Hastings said. The same scene replayed, this time the red glow was brighter and clearly to the left. "And from the front."

The angle this time was of the glowing faces of movie patrons. There were more empty seats than filled ones, but it was still a large crowd by Festival standards, the undercover police doubling the audience, and the murders inexplicably not scaring anyone away. Those farthest in the back were only shadows, until suddenly an unmistakable lightsaber was seen swinging and then it all went dark again.

"And the best for last. Johnson's own body cam." Hastings hesitated and looked to Colby. "You want to step outside?"

"Nah, I'm good."

Jeans-dude returned and offered Hastings two glazed doughnuts. Hastings shook his head and pointed at the desk at a place for him to set them down.

Hastings brought up the final video. The scene repeated. The angle was low. Johnson must have been wearing the camera on his chest, perhaps disguised as a tie tack. Although police-issue cameras were a little bulky for the ruse to work at close range, it might not attract attention at a distance. Only the upper halves of Obi-Wan and Darth were visible above the row of seats in front of Johnson.

The lightsaber activated and an older man briefly came into view. The lightsaber swung towards the camera, sweeping just out of frame, the distinctive hum louder than the sound effects in the movie which seemed like an echo in the background. The image tilted just a few degrees and then…

Luke Skywalker screamed as Obi-Wan's robes collapsed and the heroes fled the Death Star and everyone ignored Princess Leia when she pointed out that the Stormtroopers who were known for precision shooting were clearly missing on purpose as part of a trap.

And then Hastings finally stopped the video.

"I don't like watching the part after the house lights came up and they found the body," he explained. "Shit got upsetting."

"No one realized he'd been killed until after the film was over?" Dean asked. It fit the M.O. Out of all of the cases, only Blueberry Girl had died slowly enough to attract anyone's attention.

"There was an empty seat between us," Colby repeated. "And he was still sitting upright. It wasn't until I tried to… to wake him up that he… he wasn't all… connected anymore and he… slid."

"Play it again and pause it at the attack," Mary said.

Hastings didn't bother. Instead, he switched screens and brought up a series of still images that he'd already isolated. "This is your killer."

He looked vaguely like Alec Guinness in that way that all white men start to look more and more alike as they age.

"That is not Obi-Wan Kenobi," Dean announced firmly.

Sam had to agree. The lightsaber washed all other color out of the picture, but if you looked closely, you could see stripes on the man's shirt. Another image more clearly showed the traditional modern collar unbuttoned below the man's wrinkled neck.

"Doesn't really look _that_ much like him," Mary agreed.

"That is _not_ Obi-Wan's lightsaber," Dean said, settling the matter. "That's Vader's. Maybe he's supposed to be Anakin?"

"Who?" Hastings asked.

"Bro, we are no longer friends," Jeans-dude said.

"Ben Kenobi's lightsaber was _blue_ ," Dean explained. " _Darth Vader_ 's lightsaber was red. Ergo, that is not Obi-Wan."

"Pull up the view from the front of the theater again," Mary said. "And pause… there."

For that brief moment when the lightsaber was glowing in the back of the theater, the shadowy figures in the last few rows were illuminated.

"That guy there," Mary said, pointing at a seated figure off to the side on the aisle a few rows behind Johnson and Colby. "Cop or civilian? Do we have footage?"

"Yeah, he's one of ours, but there's nothing on his cam. I already showed you everything I have."

"I want to see it anyway," Mary said. Hastings glanced at the others as if to verify that Mary really was in charge and then resigned himself to finding the footage.

It took him longer to locate it since it wasn't already flagged as relevant, but he finally had it.

Just as the battle between Jedi Masters commenced, an old man walked in front of the image. They got as far as Luke screaming without so much as a flicker or a glow to indicate anything amiss. "See, nothing."

"Back it up," Mary said and it was so clearly an order that Hastings didn't hesitate. "And pause… there."

"Old guy getting up to go to the bathroom?" Colby said. "You think the old man saw something."

"The direction he's walking, he's either leaving the theater or he's crossing the aisle towards the victim," Mary said. "And if he was leaving the theater, the light from the door opening would have been visible from multiple camera angles."

Jeans-dude scoffed. "You think that scrawny old man cut Johnson in half? I'm not saying Johnson was in shape, but he was _solid_."

The old man who had walked across the frame looked ordinary, harmless. He was short, thin, slightly stooped. He was wearing an oversized, striped bowling shirt that hung limply on his bony frame. He was shuffling along purposefully but unhurried. He was also carrying what appeared to be a flashlight.

"Zoom in on that," Mary said.

Hastings did, but the shape remained blurry and out of focus from the poor lighting conditions.

"Can you do anything with the contrast?" Sam said doubtfully.

"Enhance!" Dean said.

Hastings stopped and turned around in his chair. "Is this funny to you? Do you know how many times _every damn week_ that I have to explain to senior detectives _who should know better_ that this shit is not CSI."

"Sorry," Dean said.

Mary pulled something up on her phone and said, "Go back to his face. What do you think? Same guy?" She held her phone next to the monitor.

The image from the theater was grainy and low contrast. Mary's phone meanwhile was cracked with an elastic hair band wrapped around it to keep the chipped back panel from falling off. Neither was an ideal picture to use for comparison, but it looked like the same guy.

In Mary's photo he was wearing a polo shirt instead of a bowling shirt, a straw fedora on his head, and reading glasses, but the resemblance was strong.

"Who's your suspect?" Colby asked.

"Henry Kagan," Mary said.

Dean shot Sam a startled look. It wasn't an angle Sam had considered either.

"Kagan?" Colby repeated. "That was the heart attack you were trying to tie into this mess as the first victim. What, you think Kagan faked his own death to cover for the murder spree?"

They didn't think anything of the kind, but it gave them a good excuse for the next question.

"Where is Kagan buried?" Sam asked.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°  


Mary suggested they all take her car and come back for the Impala later. It made sense. It was newer. It got better gas mileage. It wasn't freaking black in the Florida sun. The sacrifice in legroom was worth it even for Sam.

Dean, of course, insisted on driving his baby. "We'll meet you there in a bit," Dean said as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Sam and I have an idea."

Sam nodded as if he had a clue what Dean was talking about because he didn't want to start an argument in a police station parking lot. Once inside the car, he said, "For the record, I'm still mad at you."

"You're gonna love me again soon," Dean said. Sam wasn't sure if he was referring to his secret _idea_ or if he was just stating an inevitable fact.

Dean drove back to the same strip mall the doughnut shop was in. Thanks to the early-morning doughnut traffic, combined with some really inept parkers, Dean had to loop through the lot twice before he found a spot big enough to park their car. Fortunately, one of the bad parkers was just leaving with his doughnuts on the second pass, which freed up two spaces. Dean pulled into one and a little white hatchback zipped into the neighboring space two seconds later.

Sam was just opening the door when he recognized Colby behind the wheel of the other car.

Sam waved awkwardly as he carefully climbed out of the Impala in the narrow parking space. Once he was on the sidewalk, Colby took his turn squeezing out of his car.

"Uh, hi," Sam said.

"I thought we were going to the cemetery," Colby said.

_We?_ Sam had no explanation for why they were at a strip mall, but more to the point he had no idea how they were going to ditch Colby before the salt-n-burn if he was so determined to tag along.

"I thought this wasn't your case," Dean said, gruffly. "Richards and Rivera are handling it. Isn't that what they said at the station?"

Sam was a little surprised at Dean's challenging tone. "Look, man, I get it. You lost your partner," he said, sympathetically, trying to take some of the sting out of Dean's words. "That's gotta be rough. Maybe you should just take a little time off to grieve, y'know."

Colby looked at his feet and sighed. He would have looked exactly like a sad second-grader picked last for dodgeball if it hadn't been for the small bald spot. The breeze blew his wispy combover straight up and the sunlight made his light brown hair look almost red.

Sam look desperately at Dean. _Make it better._ But Dean gave Sam a quick head shake and signaled for him to hold back.

Colby finally looked back up and said, "So, the thing is. Johnson was kind of an asshole and I hated him. Except Rivera and Richards are even bigger assholes and they've swooped in and convinced the chief to give them all of my important cases on account of my 'emotional distress' meanwhile dumping all their dead-end crap on me so that I 'stay busy' and 'feel included'. So when I tell you I need to solve this case, don't take it as a desperate grieving partner out for revenge, okay? I need to solve this case so I can shove their face in it."

"You don't mind cutting a few corners in that case?" Dean asked with a smug smile and Sam realized he'd been goading Colby on purpose. "Sometimes, we at the FBI like to speed things up a little. Strictly off the record."

"I'm in," Colby said, standing up straighter.

"This way, gentlemen," Dean said, leading them into a clothing store.

It took Sam a beat to get what was special about the store. It wasn't just a clothing store. It was a _uniform_ store. There were police uniforms along one wall with multiple signs posted reminding customers that they needed to have their credentials to purchase police or postal uniforms. The rest of the store was divided into waitress dresses and aprons, janitor and mechanic uniforms, and hospital scrubs ranging from plain white to cartoon prints.

Dean didn't bother looking around and went straight to the young woman at the cash register. "Excuse me, miss. What do you have by way of lightweight coveralls? I need a couple of talls—do you have any _extra_ tall?—and at least one, uh, less so."

Sam wasn't sure what the minimum height requirement was for Florida police detectives, but he had a feeling Colby had been standing up extra straight the day he qualified.

She started to point toward the rear of the shop without looking, but then glanced up and met Dean's magical sparkly-heart eyes.

"Right this way," she said smoothing down her employee smock. It looked like something out of the dental hygienist section, but with the store logo dotted all over it instead of one of the more whimsical prints. It was not designed to be flattering on anyone and the way she kept fussing with it suggested she was painfully aware of that fact.

She led them to the racks of coveralls. "My name's Cynthia. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

The first one that Sam grabbed turned out to be a heavy material, thicker than the pants he was already wearing. It seemed like the sort of thing you'd wear if you were welding or working with heavy machinery. "We're looking for thinner material," he said. " _Light_ weight."

"And something light in color, too," Dean added, taking dark green coveralls out of Colby's hands and sliding it back on the rack. "Think grounds crew, out in the hot sun. White?"

"White will show dirt and grass stains if this is for a landscaping crew," she said.

_And blood_ , Sam mentally added. "Do you have anything in a faded red?"

"Salmon?" Cynthia suggested.

"I'm not wearing pink," Colby announced.

"How about these?" Dean said holding up a pair of khaki coveralls. "Dude, with the right patches, we'd look just like the _Ghostbusters_. How perfect is that?"

"There are patches next to the register," Cynthia said. "We also do custom embroidery, but that can run more than the cost of the uniforms themselves depending on how elaborate the design is."

"A medium for Mom?" Dean asked, quickly changing it to, "Mon. Monica. Do you think we should get a medium for Monica? She'd fit into the small, but it might be too short."

"I think women get offended if you buy them something too big," Colby said uncertainly. "It's like you're suggesting you thought they were fat."

Cynthia shook her head firmly. "Not with a work uniform. Trust me. There's nothing more mortifying than telling your boss you need a bigger size than what he guessed. And you don't want anything too clingy, especially grounds crew if she's going to be working outside. Baggier is better."

As far as Sam could tell, they were all baggy and the main difference in sizes was the height. So they grabbed a medium for Mary and three talls—there was, alas, no extra tall—and a _less so_ for Colby.

The clerk pointed out there was a price break if they ordered ten, so they grabbed another medium and four talls, because, hey, they might come in handy again in the future.

The patches at the counter said things like JANITORIAL and SECURITY and there were several different designs with blank areas for custom embroidery. There was also a rack of oval patches with names already stitched on them. There was a SAM and a MARY, but Dean ignored them and instead picked out JOE, LARRY, JEFFREY, MARIA, and STEVE.

"Cas look like a Steve to you?" Dean asked as he grabbed the last one.

"I could be Steve," Colby said.

"No, you're definitely a Jeffrey."

Cynthia offered to stitch the patches on for five dollars each, but Dean said they didn't have time and accepted five complimentary safety pins instead.

"Here you go, Jeffrey," he said, handing Colby his small uniform out on the sidewalk.

Colby immediately stepped into it and started pulling it on over his clothes.

"Over your clothes?" Dean said. "Seriously?"

"That's why they're called coveralls," Colby said, condescendingly. "They go on over your clothes to protect them."

"Maybe, when it's not seven thousand percent humidity," Dean said.

"Says the man driving a black car with vinyl seats," Colby responded.

Sam quickly stepped in between them and Colby never knew he'd just had his life saved. Not that he wasn't speaking the absolute truth, but Dean didn't take shit about his car from anyone but Sam.

He distracted them both by phoning Mary. "Hey, _Monica_ , we've got a plan. We've got uniforms. Do you see a place nearby where we can all change? Perfect. See you in fifteen."

They met up at McDonald's a block from the cemetery. While they'd been shopping for uniforms, Castiel had acquired a clipboard because Mary apparently had similar ideas about how to blend in.

Colby insisted that coveralls go on _over_ your clothing, but everyone else agreed that the long-sleeve coveralls would be more than warm enough all by themselves. Colby had the disadvantage of not realizing there was about to be genuine physical labor involved.

They left the other cars at McDonald's and all five of them got into the Impala, Colby in the back between Castiel and Mary, complaining about the black vinyl under his breath.

The cemetery was in the dead center of a busy residential neighborhood. Their standard midnight dig would have attracted more attention—and police—than strolling in in broad daylight. Sometimes the best camouflage was to be as obvious as possible, just in a boring way that no one cared about. They made no attempt to hide their shovels and crowbars as they walked into the cemetery. Although Sam covered the gas can in an old rag as he couldn't think of a good rationale for having it. From Henry Kagan's gravesite, they had a clear view of the neighbor's swimming pool across the street.

"Any cemetery employees show up, we're from the city investigating a water leak," Dean told Colby.

The grave still had a temporary marker. It had been covered in new sod, but the ground shouldn't have had time to settle much so this was going to be a much easier dig than a lot of the ones they'd done. Sam dug his shovel in, to pry up the sod which was already trying to root itself in the soil below.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Colby squeaked. "What the hell?"

"Dude, seriously?" Sam said, pausing.

"Colby," Dean said. "Did you think we spent money on disguises just to come out here and _look_ at the grave?"

"I… but you can't… you need a court order to exhume…"

Sam sighed. Castiel wrote something down on his clipboard. Mary snickered.

"Cutting corners… speeding things up… we talked about this." Dean's gestures grew more animated, as if pantomiming might help Colby see reason. "You said you were on board."

"But… digging up a dead guy?"

"Or _not_ digging up a dead guy," Mary said. "You're the one who suggested Kagan faked his own death."

"But it's not admissible in court if we—"

"Jeffrey," Dean said, putting his arm around Colby.

"My name's not—"

"Jeff, man, do you _care_ whether this is admissible in court? We have two possibilities here. One, the grave is empty, which gives you a good idea who to pursue, but which is not actually a crime so we don't need to tell anyone about it. Two, the grave is not empty, which proves Kagan is not your man and then we just fill it back up and no one is the wiser."

"But if we're not going to tell anyone what we find, what's the point of—?"

"Knowledge," Dean said. "Knowledge _is_ power. Do you want to be powerful, Jeffrey?"

"I—"

"Good. We only have two shovels, so if you don't want to help, you can just stand over there and keep Steve and Maria company. Larry and I have some shoveling to do."

"Okay."

They were careful with the sod so that they could put it back in place when they were done. Then they went to work on the dirt, alternating their shovels so they could work double-time, like cogs in a well-oiled machine. When they took a water break, Mary was the first to volunteer to take a turn. Colby somewhat reluctantly climbed into the grave after her. He helped a tiny bit more than he hindered, but Mary rolled her eyes at them several times suggesting the help wasn't worth the headache. 

"Hey, Steve, you want to take a go?" Dean asked.

"No, I'm fine," Castiel said. He was writing on his clipboard again. Sam glanced over his shoulder and realized that he was honestly writing up their case notes as Mary had suggested.

"Apparently the Scribe of Hunters is busy," Sam said.

They helped Mary and Colby back out of the grave. There was still a ways to go, but they had the hole deep enough now that only one of them could fit and have room to throw the dirt up and out. Sam volunteered to be first. 

It was not a selfless gesture. He figured if he could keep it up long enough, it would be Dean's turn by the time they hit the casket. Sam wasn't squeamish around fresh corpses or long-dead corpses, but the in-between ones were a different story. He figured Kagan had been in the ground just long enough to get good and squishy.

When his shovel hit the casket, Dean said, "Okay, you can take a break," but Sam knew there was still a fair amount of shoveling to do around the edges. It was one of the new modern things, heavy and leak-proof, so they'd need to pry it open and to do that they'd need more room, and then just hacking into it would be a hell of a lot of work. 

"You know what I love?" Sam panted. "Coffins. A pine box is fine too, but if you want to go fancy, a nice polished wood coffin. I fucking hate caskets."

"Isn't casket just another name for coffin?" Colby asked.

"Nope. That," Dean said, pointing at the grave, "is a casket. Boxy thing, usually made of metal, the same width all the way along it. Drape anything over it and you can't even tell the head from the foot. A coffin is an elongated hexagon that tapers at the feet and it's usually made of wood. Think Dracula."

"Oh. Interesting." Colby didn't sound interested. "The FBI really knows a lot about the funeral industry."

"We know a lot about everything," Castiel said.

Sam crawled out of the grave and lay panting on the grass for a few moments. 

"Stand up," Dean hissed. "You'll attract attention."

"What time is it? I'm starving."

Colby boggled. "How can you even _think_ of _food_ at a—"

"Aw, damn, you're right," Dean said. "It's getting late." He pulled his phone out of the pocket of his coveralls and made a call. "Yo, Carl, it's Agent Allman. We're running a little late for that lunch appointment. Can we push it back to one or two? Great, I'll call you as soon as we wrap things up here."

Dean grabbed their best crowbar, the titanium one, and jumped into the grave. Having a fair idea what to expect, Sam stepped well back. Colby was edging closer, curious and unaware that there was zero chance the casket would be empty.

With a final whack, Sam could hear something give way and then Dean gagged and called, "Oh, God, I hate it when they're _soupy_."

Colby cried out, "Holy fuck!" as Mary laughed.

Sam stopped breathing. 

Literally.

Icy hands were suddenly on his throat, freezing as much as choking the life out of him. Sam stumbled backward, but between Dean's annoyed sputtering and Colby's hysterical cursing, no one could hear him struggling mere steps behind them. As Sam started to black out he said a silent prayer that no one in the entire universe could hear.

Dean saw him first, but he was still half in the grave and had no leverage to move fast enough. "Sammy!"

The specter vanished. Sam took in a ragged breath, but he had no time to feel relieved as Henry Kagan reappeared behind Dean. Sam tried to shout, "Behind you!" but his voice was barely a whisper.

Mary was quick. She grabbed the spare crowbar, heavy antique iron, and took a swipe at him. It cut straight through him and he faded away like smoke.

"What. The. Hell?!" Colby screamed.

"He's a ghost, dumbass," Dean said climbing out of the grave. He pulled his lighter out of his other pocket, but he didn't have time to light it before Kagan reappeared.

Castiel tried to grab him, but Kagan, who was more than a head shorter—shorter even than Colby—kicked him in the chest with his orthopedic shoes and the angel flew back a good ten feet.

Colby tried to pull his gun from his holster which, in his panic, he'd forgotten was underneath his coveralls. He frantically unzipped and scrambled for it.

"Bullets won't work on a spirit!" Mary yelled, taking another lunge at Kagan.

This time the old man was faster and disappeared and reappeared before she could get at him with the iron. 

It was one of the most ludicrous things Sam had ever seen. Henry Kagan was old and short and frail, wearing a striped bowling shirt, baggy plaid shorts that sagged down to within an inch of his compression socks. And he was kind of kicking their butts.

The ghost hesitated between Colby who was now waving what was clearly a weapon, ineffectual though it was, and Dean who was flicking the lighter.

Dean got the lighter aflame; it would be over in seconds. But Kagan immediately came to the conclusion that Dean was the greater threat and zoomed after him with inhuman speed. 

Every instinct he had told Sam to defend Dean, now choking just as he had been moments before, but he knew the real way to do that wasn't with a physical fight. He scrambled for the gas can, while Mary took another swipe with the iron bar, briefly dispelling the spirit.

Sam poured gasoline over the body and Dean tossed in the lighter. Henry Kagan reappeared and then burst into flames almost simultaneously.

Sam dusted himself off and glanced around. No sirens. A few cars went by. A jogger with a dog approached unhurried. Had _no one_ noticed that?

"All right, Colby, your turn," Dean gasped. "Let's get this grave re-filled and get the hell out of here."

"What?!"

Mary and Castiel stepped up and started refilling the grave while Sam and Dean got their breath back.

"Congratulations," Dean told Colby. "You solved the case. Henry Kagan faked his death to become a serial killer. You confronted him and, uh, he…"

"Fled into the swamps and was eaten by an alligator?" Sam suggested.

Dean squinted at him. "Let's try to keep this simple. He jumped off a pier and drowned himself."

"And then was eaten by a shark," Sam added just to annoy Dean.

"Or you could just tell them the truth," Mary said. "Kagan died and became a ghost, then haunted the theater killing moviegoers with spectral magic, and then we burned his bones destroying him."

"If those are my only options, I'll go with the alligator," Colby said.

"Whatever," Dean said. "You'll think of something."

"That was fucking terrifying," Colby said.

Dean beamed. He even bounced a little on his heels.

Sam sighed. "Oh, just go on and say it."

"I ain't afraid of no ghost."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°  



	19. Unfinished Business

They forgot to crack the car windows, so by the time they were done reinterring the ashes of Henry Kagan, the Impala was too hot to get inside. They opened up all four doors to air it out, but it took awhile before Dean could bring himself to get inside long enough to turn the key and start the air conditioning, and even Dean jumped right back out hissing about the Florida sun hurting his poor baby.

Colby drifted away, muttering about how his car was walking distance and he had to get back to the station and figure out how to write his report.

"What I don't get," Sam said, while the four of them stood around waiting for the car to cool down, "is how Kagan went from natural death to killer in just a week. Vengeful spirits usually take more time to build power, especially one that didn't even die a violent death. Sharks and lightsabers? That's like Expert Specter Level Mojo. Kagan should have been at Novice Ghost Level still learning how to move pennies."

"Forget _how_ for a minute," Dean said. "I don't even get _why_. What was Kagan's beef?"

"He used to work as a lawyer for a movie studio," Sam recalled. "Maybe part of his job was making sure the studio got all their money from the theaters. So, he was angry about that?"

"So why not report them? From what Sophie said he had plenty of opportunities before he died."

"I have an idea about that," Mary said. "Do we have time to swing by the theater before we meet Carl?"

Dean looked doubtfully at the car. "If we leave now, yeah."

Sam popped the trunk and got out their beach towels and put them down on the vinyl seats. Dean looked slightly defeated so Sam didn't rub it in.

"We'll meet you there," Mary said. Like Colby, she was apparently more willing to walk back to her car than sit on the Impala's black vinyl.

"Uh, do you mind if Castiel rides with us?" Sam asked.

Mary shrugged, but she eyed him curiously. There would be questions later. Or not. He was just now coming to grips with the fact that his mother noticed and understood far more than she let on.

Sam pulled one of Dean's old shirts from the trunk and spread it out on the backseat to offer Castiel more than his thin coveralls as protection from the heat.

A few blocks down the road and the AC started doing its job and the rest of the ride was more bearable.

"So, Castiel," Sam began, glancing over his shoulder, "about the whole prayer thing?" He felt weird broaching the subject.

"I assure you that I will keep Dean's prayers in the strictest confidence as I always have," Castiel said.

Sam noticed that Dean winced a little at the _as I always have_ part.

"Are _you_ okay with it though?" Sam asked. "It's not like a… a psychic form of sexual harassment?"

"It will not bother me," Castiel insisted. "I have engaged in sexual intercourse and I still do not understand the human obsession with it."

"So… it wouldn't make it worse if you could hear my prayers too?"

"You changed your mind?" Dean asked.

"Back there when I was choking. It would have been kind of handy if I could have gotten Castiel's attention."

"It doesn't hurt anything like the skull engraving," Dean reassured him. "Just a little warm."

"Are you _sure_ that you're okay with this, Castiel?" Sam asked.

Castiel rolled his eyes and said wearily, "I cannot even begin to describe how much I don't care about sex, who is having it, or what they are praying about it." 

It sounded like a lie, but Castiel was a big boy and Sam wasn't going to push it.

"Okay then."

Because of her extra walking time, they got to The Festival well before Mary did. On the sidewalk, Castiel had Sam unzip his coveralls. He placed one hand on the center of Sam's chest and closed his eyes in concentration. _Warm_ was an understatement. Sam hissed as he started to burn, but just when it got really bad it was over.

_Is it done?_ he thought.

"It is done."

Sam's stomach dropped. _That wasn't a prayer._

"The line between thought and prayer is… imprecise."

"You can read our minds. He can read our minds. Did you _know_ he could read our minds?!"

Dean shrugged.

Sam had to pace the sidewalk and sputter for a bit before he could even bring himself to speak.

"You knew he could read our minds with this."

"Not our _minds_. Just our, um, _sub-vocal verbalizations_?" Dean looked questioningly at Cas to see if he'd gotten the phrase right.

"The spell does amplify the connection somewhat beyond what was previously standard," Castiel.

"Amplify?" Dean repeated, because _of course_ Dean and Castiel hadn't bothered to discuss this at any length ahead of time.

"There are various meditation techniques that train the practitioner to clear their minds of verbal—"

Sam had several dozen things he wanted to scream at Dean for, but Mary pulled up and the sidewalk outside The Festival was probably not the best place for this fight anyway.

Dean peeled back the police tape, Mary picked the lock, and Sam quickly switched off the alarm system. _High-five for teamwork_ , Sam thought and then glanced up just in time to see Castiel offering a high-five to a bemused Mary.

"Okay," Dean said to Mary, "what's your idea?"

"One moment." She went back to the car and returned with a carton of eggs. "I stopped at a grocery store on the way."

"What do you need a dozen eggs for?" Dean asked.

"I don't need a dozen. I just need one. But they won't sell you just one, so… if we can find another place with a kitchenette, we've got breakfast."

Before opening the carton, she began pulling things out of her pockets and stacking them up on the snack bar. She had twine and a seagull feather and several seashells and two plastic bags of something grainy.

"Castiel, are you taking notes?" she asked.

Castiel stepped forward with his clipboard and itemized everything she had set down. She then took the largest shell—a good five or six inches across—and upended it like a bowl. She shook the dirt out of the bags into the shell, identifying them to Castiel as she went. "Sand from the local beach. Dirt from Henry Kagan's grave." She continued assembling until she had a tiny little landscape, small shells along one edge, the feather and bits of grass—also from Kagan's grave—along the other side, one egg nestled in the center.

She then paid out a length of twine, cut it, and tied it into a loop.

"Are you making what I think you're making?" Sam asked.

"Trying to," she said, arranging the string on her fingers in something very like a cat's cradle.

"Someone want to fill me in here?" Dean asked.

"It's a shamble," Castiel said and Sam couldn't tell if he'd pulled the word out of Sam's head or if it was just his infinite store of literature.

"It doesn't look that bad," Dean said.

Mary frowned at him and then motioned Castiel forward to help. "Fingers, there and there and then… yes… no… almost."

"A _shamble_ ," Sam repeated. "It's a bit of spellwork from a Terry Pratchett story, which, as I've said before, is pure fiction. There's no proof he based the idea on a real thing."

"But it can't hurt to try," Mary said, "and I think the thing Sir Terry really got is that often the key to spellwork is making shit up because it sounds good."

She and Castiel transformed the string several more times, each time she seemed to get excited and then deflate when it wasn't quite the configuration she wanted.

"It's supposed to have knots," Sam said. "You shouldn't have made a loop. Each connection should be knotted together."

"Shush," Mary said.

"And shouldn't it be a freshly-laid egg?"

"The carton says _free-range_ and _organic_. Close enough."

"I don't think that's how—" Sam protested.

"It's exactly how," Mary said. " _With what you have in your pocket, when you need it, the way the wind blows._ I feel like making it with a cat's cradle, ergo that's the way to do it… this time."

"You haven't finished reading the _Supernatural_ books because you started with the _Discworld_ books instead didn't you?"

Mary bit her lip. "You have to admit that they're a lot funnier. I just wasn't ready for depressing shit yet."

She and Castiel made one last adjustment and Mary came away with the strings wrapped around her fingers in a new configuration. This time she nodded in satisfaction.

"Castiel, if you would. Be careful not to spill."

Castiel placed the seashell with the egg inside the strings which held it in place with tension.

"Here goes nothing." Mary closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Sam could almost imagine he heard something humming. Mary opened her eyes and glanced around the lobby and then turned down the side hallway toward the projection room. She didn't look at the thing in her hands, but she seemed to be leading herself by her fingertips.

They followed her, but stopped short when she pushed her way into the women's restroom. It was silent for half a minute and then there was a metallic banging followed by, "Ha! First try!"

Castiel and Dean just stared at each other, but Sam knew. As soon as he heard that metal clang, he knew.

The restroom door swung open and Mary stuck her head out. "Come on! See what I found!"

Sam sighed. "It was in the tampon dispenser the whole time," he muttered.

They entered the small bathroom to appreciate Mary's handiwork. The shamble was already forgotten in the sink. With the front of the dispenser out of the way, you could clearly see the contents of the three bins. One was stocked with tampons, one with menstrual pads, and the third with flowers and herbs and crystals and an odd little black scroll.

"Is that a piece of film," Dean asked, leaning in for a closer look.

"Place your bets. _Wizard of Oz_? _Rosemary's Baby_? _The Devil's Own_?" Mary picked up the little scroll of film and unrolled it revealing a dozen frames. She held it up to the light and announced, "Angela Lansbury. Huh. Did not expect Angela Lansbury."

Dean joined her in squinting at the piece of film. "It's _Bedknobs and Broomsticks_."

Sam laughed. "Who casts a ghost-powering spell using _Bedknobs and Broomsticks_?"

"Andrew Price, apparently," Dean said.

"It's not a ghost-powering spelling," Mary said, "at least not intentionally. Look here. Clear quartz. Blue opal. Forget-me-nots. Rosemary. And you can just make out an inscription near the edge of the film. This wasn't a ghost spell, this was a memory spell, but also kind of a memory- _loss_ spell mixed with a happiness spell. It was a… nostalgia spell."

"What was it Sophie said about this place?" Dean asked. "You forget what you hated about it and feel instantly nostalgic?"

"There are two spells here working in tandem," Castiel observed. "One of them draws people back. The other causes people to forget unsettling thoughts as they leave. The first is the weaker of the two spells which explains why not everyone comes back."

"Sophie said Kagan was always angry," Sam said. "She didn't understand why he kept coming back if he hated the place, but he never remembered that he hated it until he was _here_."

"Most people didn't realize they were under a spell because they never hated the place to begin with," Dean suggested. "They walk out with a fond memory of the place and they come back and go, 'Oh, yeah, I forgot the seats aren't that comfortable and the carpets are dirty' and they don't think it's weird because that's just the kind of thing you do forget. Kagan must have been furious. He knew he wanted to report them. He'd leave and forget only to return and think, 'Son of a bitch, I was going to report these people.' I suppose he still knew people in the industry?"

"Or he at least knew who to file a complaint with," Sam agreed.

"So one day he dies here," Mary says. "Natural causes, but that doesn't change the fact that he was angry. And moreover, what's the _one_ thing that all vengeful spirits have in common?"

"Vengeance," Castiel said.

" _Unfinished business_ ," Mary said. "Lots of people have reason to be angry when they die, but most of them go with their Reaper when they're called anyway. I mean, this was stupid and petty unfinished business to be sure, but he obviously felt strongly about it."

"And the spell itself was amplifying the magical field in the building," Sam agreed. "So what would take another spirit years to master, Kagan had almost immediately."

"Why only Saturday matinees?" Dean wondered.

"According to Sophie, those were the only showings he attended," Sam said.

"Not all spirits are only bound to the places they died," Mary said. "Some are only seen where their bodies were laid to rest. Others haunt places they, well, haunted in life. I have this feeling that if you followed up on Henry Kagan's weekly routine, you'd discover they've had a lot of unexplained phenomena since he died."

Dean laughed. "Oh, God, what if even his _ghost_ didn't remember that he hated the movie theater when he left? He goes and haunts his grocery store and barber shop and bowling alley and it's nothing more than the occasional flickering light and random cold spot and then, once a week, he shows up for his regular matinee and loses his shit."

"I don't know. He was violent enough at the cemetery," Sam said, rubbing his throat.

"Self-defense," Dean said. "Lots of spirits get pissy when they sense you're near their grave. Man, I can't believe we didn't realize this was just a haunting. We solve those in our sleep."

"Cold spots," Sam groaned. "There were no cold spots because the entire theater was a freaking cold spot. If anyone encountered an authentic cold spot, they'd just blame it on walking under a vent or something. The house itself is usually dark and the lobby has fluorescent lights so flickering lights were just normal too. Everyone said no to those questions because they didn't _notice_ that sort of thing anymore."

"So… we solved it?" Dean asked.

"Well, I think Mom mostly solved it, but, yeah."

Mary bit her lip.

"What?" Dean groaned.

"Nothing."

"Okay, fine, we stay in town one more week just to be sure."

They destroyed all the magical trinkets, including Mary's, as she was quite firm that a shamble should only be used once.

"I think this fiasco demonstrates the dangers of leaving magical artifacts lying around. Even ones you think are perfectly harmless." She looked at them pointedly, hands on hips.

"Yeah, Price really screwed up," Dean said.

Mary sighed. "I tipped housekeeping extra to clean up your sigils in West Virginia," she said.

Castiel nodded.

Dean still looked defensive, biting back a _hey, now_ , because _of course_ Dean was about to argue… just… not with Mary.

Sam ducked his head and muttered, "Sorry."

Afterward, Sam washed his hands thoroughly twice, but he swore he could still faintly smell gasoline. More than likely he'd splashed some on his coveralls.

They met Carl for lunch at a mom-n-pop pizza place and told him everything while they waited for their pie. Carl took it all in with a measured calmness that Colby could have learned from.

"You're okay with all of this?" Dean asked.

Carl shrugged, but the waitress arrived with their pizza before he could say anything.

The waitress smiled at Dean, technically at all of them, but Sam was positive Dean had earned an extra smile. The conversation paused as she served out a slice for each of them. Sam couldn't remember ever having been to a pizza place this fancy.

"Weird as fuck, but it makes sense," Carl said as soon as the waitress left. "So, Mr. Price's mom was a witch and he learned it from her?"

"Maybe not even a witch," Castiel said. "There are different kinds of magic. This was fairly low-level spellwork. The kind of do-it-yourself magic that barely works, but just nudges things a bit."

" _Barely_ works?" Sam repeated, frowning at his pizza. It _looked_ delicious, but his coveralls still carried the faint whiff of gasoline. No matter how hungry he was, his stomach still protested. "It sent that old man into a rage."

"The forgetting spell couldn't wipe away memories, it would just distract you from thinking about them," Castiel said. "Unfortunately, Henry Kagan had mild dementia. A little distraction was all it took for him to lose his train of thought. He wasn't just angry at the theater for showing pirated films, he was angry at himself for forgetting. Self-hate is the most destructive kind."

Sam flicked his eyes to Dean to see if he picked up on the self-hate message, but Dean was up to his ears in pizza. Even Castiel-the-mind-reader probably wasn't picking up anything more from him than _mmmmm, pizzzaaaa_.

"I'm sure Andrew Price didn't mean to hurt anyone," Mary said. "A few tiny little spells to keep the theater in business. He probably never even suspected the deaths had anything to do with it."

"So, he's not going to get fired or anything, is he?" Carl said, sagging a bit.

"You know," Sam said. "His grandfather is still fairly sharp and he still technically owns the business. I think if you and Sophie went and told him how things have been declining since Andrew took over, he might be willing to put a different manager in charge."

Dean shrugged. "He knew Andrew's dad Scott was an idiot. It probably won't hurt his feelings any if you told him Andrew was too."

"You might want to leave out the whole ghost murder witchcraft part," Sam added.

Carl smiled.

"What?" Sam asked. He was accustomed to being suspicious of smiles like that.

"Half-truths are the best lies," Carl said. "I tell him about the incompetent management and how Mr. Price tried to compensate by doing _magic spells_."

"Definitely mention the tampon dispenser," Dean said.

"And we're a hundred percent sure it's over?" Carl asked.

"We're staying in town until after next week's matinee to be sure, but we're _pretty_ sure," Sam said.

"But you said you destroyed the lure, so no one's going to show up."

"Doesn't matter," Dean reassured him. " _We'll_ be there."

"Kinda matters to whether I have a job or not," Carl said. "I'm gonna need to make better flyers."

"Good luck with that," Dean said, handing the waitress cash for the bill.

Carl nodded to himself several times and then said, "I can make this work," and left without a good-bye.

"So, have we settled on a place to stay tonight?" Dean asked.

They all pulled out their phones for a quick web search, all of them but Castiel at any rate. He seemed to have no preference.

Sam found a motel twenty minutes inland that was charging a fraction of the price of those by the beach. It was the kind of place they were used to where they could park right in front of the room so Dean didn't have to worry about his baby. And, because it was Florida, there was a large plastic orange on the signpost. It had a swimming pool and—not that they'd use it—a shuffleboard court.

As soon as Dean said, "Book four rooms," Mary announced that she and Castiel would go to the Ramada down the street.

"I need my space," she said when Dean tilted his head at her.

"Oh, uh, okay, uh," Dean stammered, glancing at Castiel, "just two rooms for us then."

Sam booked only one room.

°•°♥°•°♥°•°  


The room was better than Sam expected for the price. Nothing like their free upgrade by the beach, but they got a kitchenette without even asking. The microwave wasn't more than two feet from one of the beds, but still.

Dean had managed to claim the leftover pizza, which he put in the fridge. They tossed their stuff on the bed nearest to—Sam was tempted to say _in_ —the kitchenette and then in unison said, "Shower?"

They kicked off their shoes and unzipped their coveralls. Dean was slightly bruised around the neck where Kagan had grabbed him so Sam imagined he must be the same. The advantage of coveralls is that they were so quick to peel off and—

_Holy—_

Sam was standing there in his underwear, coveralls still tangled around his knees, when he realized Dean had been going full commando. The coveralls came off and his dick was just right there and _already hard_ standing straight up against his body.

"You have no idea how much I envy the way you can hide that," Sam said, a tent quickly forming out of his underwear.

"Why would you ever want to hide Princess?" Dean asked, stepping closer. 

He brushed his finger over the taut fabric deliberately avoiding Sam's penis. It was so distracting that Sam almost fell over trying to get his feet out of the coveralls.

"Dude, I'd get arrested if I wore fabric that thin with no underwear beneath it in public."

Dean tugged at Sam's waistband. "We're not in public now."

Sam moved in for a kiss, but Dean leaned away. "Man, you know I love you, but you smell like gasoline and smoke and death. We need to get you into that shower now."

Sam agreed. Alas, they were back to their cheap motel routine and while the shower was serviceable, it was definitely a _one Winchester at a time_ shower.

Dean got in with him anyway.

It was a tub-and-shower combo which made the footing even more awkward and the shower curtain kept sticking to Sam's legs.

"We're gonna die," Sam laughed. "This is how we die. We slip and crack our heads open in a motel bathtub."

"Jesus," Dean said, looking genuinely frightened. "That would be a hell of a thing for Mom."

"Yeah, speaking of…" Sam shut off the water even though they were both still sudsy and then stepped out of the tub.

"What are you doing?"

"Out here where you're less likely to slip and fall when you freak out. Come on," Sam said.

Dean glowered at him suspiciously, but he stepped out onto the bathmat.

"Sam?"

"Mom knows."

Dean's eyes bugged out wider than Sam had ever seen. Little Dean instantly _shriveled_.

"She's okay with it. Like totally okay with it. She's happy for us."

"You. Told. Mom?!"

"I didn't tell her! _No one_ told her. She figured it out. She read between the lines. She read… She found _morethanbrothers.net_.

" _Your ex-wife_ told Mom?!"

"Becky is not my ex-wife. That marriage was annulled."

"Mom knows fanfiction isn't real, right?"

"Dean, she knows you didn't sleep in a separate room in West Virginia. She was checking up on you. She knew darn well what those sigils were for because she was already suspicious before then. I think—" Sam blinked a few times as he really thought about. "I think she already suspected before we even _did_ anything. And _she's okay with it._ "

"I'm going to need a minute to process," Dean said.

Sam nodded. He grabbed the soap as a distraction, lathered up his pits. He couldn't smell gasoline anymore, but he wasn't going to feel clean again until he shampooed his hair.

Dean took the soap from him and did the same. It was a lot easier to just pre-scrub themselves standing on the bathmat than trying and failing to take a proper shower. 

"Turn around," Dean said and Sam shivered. He had quickly grown very fond of Dean bathing him and if this was going to turn into part of their normal routine, he was going to be a very happy hunter.

Dean grabbed a washcloth and started scrubbing Sam's back, shoulder blades, up under his armpits despite Sam clearly being able to reach there on his own just fine, down his spine and the small of his back and, hello, ass time.

Sam wriggled. "Just in case I wasn't clear enough last time, I _love_ it when you do that."

"Yeah?"

"So much."

"Okay. Lean against the counter."

Sam was happy to assume the position. Dean was still a giant tease and started out just gently working the washcloth over his butt cheeks and then slowly moved down to the back of his thighs and then back up to just sort of cup each buttock in turn. Sam whimpered.

"Ooo, Sammy likey," Dean laughed. He set the washcloth aside and just started squeezing Sam's butt with his strong hands. 

Sam couldn't even bring himself to protest the stupid baby talk.

"What do you think? Alternating?" Dean asked, kneading Sam's butt like a cat. "Or simultaneous?"

Sam was about to say it didn't make a difference, but when Dean squeezed again, he could feel the tug exposing his asshole and that was definitely moving towards an area he was eager to explore. "Yes, please. That. More."

Dean took the hint. He picked up the washcloth again, carefully rinsed all the soap out of it with warm water, and then went to work between Sam's legs. He reached forward and gently fondled Sam's testicles which were already pulled up tight, he was so close. He worked back and rubbed over Sam's perineum, the wet washcloth feeling tantalizingly similar to, but also frustratingly different from, a tongue. Pre-ejaculate dripped from Sam's dick onto the bathroom floor.

"Oh, God," Sam breathed. "I could come from just this."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. We haven't even started to have sex yet. This is just getting you cleaned up for later."

Sam shuddered and barely held it together. "Do we have plans for that area later?" _Please say yes. Please_.

"You've barely eaten today," Dean observed.

"Huh?"

"So, not a lot in the pipes. And you're feeling okay?"

Sam's brain finally pieced together that Dean was trying to very politely inquire as to whether Sam felt gastrointestinally stable enough for anal play.

"I'm hungry and horny and feeling fucking fantastic," Sam gasped. "Oh, God, go for it! Please!"

Dean washed up and down Sam's ass crack and spent a little extra time all the way south. The washcloth went away somewhere and Dean dragged a wet finger over the pucker of Sam's anus. He pressed and rubbed, short of penetration, but it didn't matter. Sam's entire life had been foreplay leading to this moment and he couldn't hold it back any longer. His hips bucked and he yelped, trying to warn Dean but his words were inaccessible, locked away in some forgotten corner of his brain.

Dean reached forward and held him as his back arched, one arm braced around Sam's chest, the other grabbing for his dick. Sam got a surreal front row seat, watching in the mirror as Dean stroked him through his orgasm. His eyes met Dean's in the mirror as he realized that Dean was watching too. Sam tried to moan like a normal human being, but all that came out of his mouth was a ridiculously high-pitched squawk.

"I got you, sweetheart," Dean muttered in his ear. "I've got you."

He could feel Little Dean pressed up against his ass, thrumming back to life, and Sam convulsed, spurting out one last glob of semen, which half landed on the sink and half dribbled onto the floor.

He let his head fall backwards to rest on Dean's shoulder while he breathed shakily. He could feel Dean's dick twitch against him. "Was that a good show?" he asked with a laugh, feeling a little mortified at his hair trigger.

He lifted his head and realized that Dean was still staring at their reflection as Sam's dick went flaccid. "It was a fucking awesome show," Dean whispered. 

If Sam didn't quite believe the words, he could see the truth in his eyes. 

"Are you going to be interested in a round two later, maybe?" Dean asked, quietly.

Dean's penis still throbbed hopefully against Sam's ass. Sam could have happily gone to sleep for a thousand years after that orgasm, but there was no way he was going to leave Dean hanging after blowing a load prematurely.

"What? That?" Sam scoffed. "That barely even took the edge off. That just slowed me down enough so that I can wash my hair." He stepped back into the shower and turned the water back on.

"You're full of shit," Dean called after him, completely shaking off that weird worshipful thing he'd been doing in the mirror.

"Nope," Sam said, working shampoo through his hair. "All I've had today was coffee and one slice of pizza, so I'm distinctly empty of shit and ready to be filled up with something else."

Sam ducked his head under the shower spray to rinse off, so he missed Dean's reply. 

"Sorry, what was that?"

He turned off the water and slid back the curtain.

Dean was standing there, still so beautiful, good and hard, hands braced on the counter at his sides as if he were afraid to touch himself before Sam got back. 

Dean cleared his throat and repeated hesitantly, "You really want me to top?"

Dean was a sex god from the neck down, but his face was a little boy who was afraid of doing the wrong thing. Telling him how awesome he was would only make him more uncomfortable.

"It's about time you started doing your share of the work," Sam said. He tossed the shampoo bottle at Dean. "Your turn. Get yourself good and clean."

Sam attempted to leer seductively, but he suspected he failed.

They changed places and Dean either forgot about the shower curtain or just didn't give a damn about the floor because he turned on the water and started washing without taking his eyes off Sam.

Sam stepped forward and closed the curtain most of the way, but kept it open just wide enough for him to keep watching and to slip in a helpful hand.

"Oh, yeah," Dean muttered under his breath as Sam ran his fingers down Dean's side. He wasn't even close to groping anything _good_ and Dean still shivered under the touch.

"Hurry up," Sam said. He slid his hand back to Dean's ass and grabbed hold of his nearest buttcheek and just held onto it.

Dean quickly and efficiently washed and rinsed his hair. "I, uh, wasn't quite done cleaning down there. I mean, if you have reason to want me to be _thorough_ about it."

"I got it," Sam said, leaning in to turn off the water. "Put a foot up here."

Dean put one foot up on the edge of the tub and braced one hand against the shower wall. Sam wet down a fresh washcloth in the sink and then came back and sat straddling the edge of the tub. Dean hummed appreciatively as Sam wiped him down between his legs, ass, balls, everything in between. 

"So, what about you?" Sam asked. "Are you up for a little rear action? Didn't eat too much pizza?"

"There is no such thing as too much pizza and I am up for _everything_."

Dean's dick was just right there so Sam couldn't resist a few teasing licks. He then got Dean in his mouth and worked at sucking his foreskin closer to the tip, which he knew was the exact opposite of what Dean wanted, but it was fun to make him squirm.

He popped back off the end with a distinct slurp.

"And rinse," Sam said, turning the water back on. Dean just bent over and let Sam rinse him clean. Sam pulled his cheeks apart to let the water get all the soap that had dripped down his back and Dean hissed out a barely audible fart.

Sam fell back onto the soggy bathmat laughing.

"Oh, my God, grow up," Dean said, turning off the water and stepping over him.

Sam got up and they both toweled off their hair.

Dean then rinsed out his washcloth, grabbed a clean towel, and then took them back into the motel room.

Sam followed close behind and watched with amusement as Dean put the washcloth on the bedside table, neatly folded down the bed, and laid out the towel.

"You're adorable," Sam said. "I wish we had a blacklight so I could show you how pointless that was."

"Do not kill the moment," Dean said. He then went and tore the protective plastic wrap off of two drinking glasses, filled them with water, and set them carefully next to the washcloth.

Sam crawled onto the bed and patted the towel. "Come on, let's get you caught up."

"Do you need a few more minutes to recover?" Dean said, doubtfully eyeing Sam's flaccid penis. 

And Sam totally did, but it wasn't relevant at the moment. "You. Here. Now." 

Dean was practical enough to grab the lube first and put it on the table next to the water glasses. He then got onto the bed and let Sam position him. Sam settled in between Dean's legs and licked and kissed his way up and down his dick. He worked his way back down to the root and then began kissing Dean's nuts. 

Dean made a sound something like _wugahoowa_ and his dick sort of jumped before bouncing back into place. Encouraged, Sam opened his mouth wide and sucked Dean's ballsac into his mouth.

"Oh, God, Sammy, I can't, I can't take it. I need, please."

Sam kissed Dean's balls one more time and then grabbed the lube. He only squeezed out a small amount, just enough to make Dean's skin glide easily under his hand. He went back to licking Dean's dick, this time helpfully sliding the foreskin out of the way and getting his mouth on the sensitive head underneath.

A slow moan worked its way out of Dean's chest that sounded almost musical. Sam did his best to push all of Dean's buttons at once. He firmly stroked his shaft with one hand, gently cupped his balls with the other, and bobbed and sucked at the same time. It was a tiny bit awkward. Giving head was more of a workout than Sam would have thought. Or maybe Sam's neck was just extra sore from nearly getting murdered by a ghost earlier in the day. Either way, he wasn't going to give up.

Dean's scent grew muskier and Sam's stomach growled. "Seriously, Sam?" Dean asked. "Do we need to stop for a pizza break? We _have_ leftovers."

Sam came up for air and said, "Do you want me to call you an idiot or do you want me to keep sucking your dick?"

"Tough choice, but I'm gonna have to go with the dick-sucking option."

"You know, I heard a rumor that semen tastes better after a guy's been drinking good beer."

"Really?"

"Not the cheap shit, but a quality brew, that's what I heard. Think we should do a taste test?

"Absolutely. We should test all the things. The vegans are always claiming fruits and vegetables work. I'm not saying I'd ever give up my burgers, but for you, I might be willing to do a rabbit food day once a week if it helps."

Sam was about to go back down when Dean's words caught up with him and he paused. "Uh?"

Dean suddenly realized what he'd said. "That was not a safeword! Oh, my God, we need a new safeword. It never occurred to me that the subject of vegetables would randomly come up during sex."

Sam laughed. "As long as we're not actively engaged in any bondage or role play, I think 'I don't want to do this right now' is a perfectly valid safeword."

"And rest assured, I want to do _all_ of this _right_ now," Dean said.

Sam went back to work and Dean went back to moaning gentle little encouragements. Sam had always been extra grateful whenever he received a blowjob because he couldn't imagine it was something anyone enjoyed doing no matter what some women claimed up front. But having Dean in his mouth was actually starting to turn him on. The way Dean twitched and moaned was exciting in itself, but the sucking-dick part was kind of hot too. He knew this thing was going to be _inside_ him later on—well, inside him from the other end—so Dean's dick was suddenly the focus of pleasure for both of them.

His stomach growled again and before Dean could say anything, Sam growled, partly to mask the sound, partly to warn Dean to drop the subject, and partly because Dean so clearly loved the power moves. Dean cried out and Sam could taste the earthy flavor of his semen, too salty to taste exactly _good_ , but it tasted like _Dean_ which was somehow better than good.

He made a point of licking Dean off when he was done—or almost done because there was a final twitch that Sam hadn't expected at all—making both the washcloth and the towel unnecessary, and then he gratefully gulped down the water Dean had handly. The water was appreciated.

"Okay, I need a pizza break after all," Sam said, feeling lightheaded.

He staggered to the fridge and pulled out the pizza.

"Do you want me to save you some or are you good?" Sam asked around a slice of pizza. Part of him felt it was rightly his; they never would have had leftovers if he'd eaten his share in the restaurant. Part of him felt guilty if he didn't offer Dean any.

"I am so beyond good," Dean breathed. "I might be imagining things, but I think you give better head when you're hungry."

"I give better head when neither of us is having an emotional crisis and no one is knocking on the door," Sam pointed out. Though he didn't rule out the hunger factor. This was the first time he'd ever found himself thinking that he enjoyed the way Dean tasted.

"That's good too," Dean said faintly, sleepily.

"No, no, no. No falling asleep," Sam said. "That was the appetizer round. We still have the main course coming up."

Sam dropped onto the bed with his full weight, causing Dean to bounce.

"Stay awake and I'll share my pizza with you," Sam said, plunking the cardboard box on Dean's chest.

Dean opened one eye.

"Or are you one of those old guys who can't get it up again for like forty-eight hours or something?" Sam teased.

Dean opened both eyes and sat up.

"Bitch, please."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	20. Fucking Awesome

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

Dean took a slice of pizza and then Sam put the box away.

"Hey, there was still more," Dean said.

"For later," Sam said. "We had reasons for not wanting to be full, remember?"

So they sat there naked and each ate a slice of pizza and drank more water and then they both started giggling.

Dean started it, but Sam was right there with him.

"So, uh," Dean gasped, wiping his eyes as he got his breath back. "What do you want to do? I mean, what do you like? Any… requests?"

Sam smiled and said, "Would you be willing to do something stupid with me? Like completely stupid?"

"What kind of stupid are we talking here?"

"Maximum stupid."

And so Sam told Dean about his initial childish misunderstanding about what _'butt sex'_ meant and they spent several minutes rolling around on the bed rubbing their butts together and laughing their fool heads off.

Most ridiculous of all, they both got hard doing it, so segueing to round two turned out to be pretty easy.

There was a brief disagreement on which position to start in. Sam wanted to be on his back with his knees tucked up so that he could watch Dean's face and Dean wanted Sam on his knees facing the other way specifically so they couldn't see each other's faces. "Because I'll just start laughing again."

"So what?" Sam asked. "Do you honestly think there's any dignity to be salvaged here?"

"We could _try_ ," Dean insisted.

"We can do it doggy-style next time. Heck, we can still switch it up and finish that way if it doesn't feel right. But the first time…" Sam leaned in and brushed his lips against Dean's cheek. Dropping his voice to a purr he continued, "I want to see the stupid face you make when you enter me the very first time." 

Dean literally shivered. He twisted his head towards Sam and transformed a dry kiss on the cheek into a wet kiss on the mouth. He pulled back and whispered, "Anything for my Sammy."

Sam flopped down on his back as he waited for Dean to get the lube. Dean barely took his eyes off of him and fumbled blinding for it on the bedside table. Sam's special request was going to be even more intense than he'd imagined it. When Dean focused, he _focused_.

Dean positioned himself between Sam's legs, giving Princess a few casual strokes before moving on to Sam's balls and then working his way back.

"God damn it," Sam muttered, closing his eyes.

"What?"

"I hate you."

"What?"

"You named my dick Princess and I hate you." Sam was now wholly unironically thinking of his dick as _Princess_ and there was apparently no undoing it. 

Dean snickered and then said, "Hey, now. Open your eyes. You said you wanted to watch. That was the whole point of doing it this way."

Sam opened his eyes. He was not going to admit that he had been wrong. 

He had totally been wrong though. He was already flushed and giggly and they hadn't even started yet. Looking Dean in the eye, while they did this, was going to be impossible.

There was nothing to see yet as Dean was just playfully toying with his opening while gently stroking his own dick with his off hand.

"Are you bucking for some award for slowest build-up ever?" Sam complained. "Let's go already."

There was suddenly the chill of lube and Dean chuckled like a jerk when Sam yelped. "Wimp."

"That's _cold_ ," Sam protested.

"Well, we'll just have to warm it up a little, won't we?" Dean said, rubbing his whole hand up and down Sam's asscrack, once again only teasing where it mattered.

"Plan B, we tie you up and I just impale myself," Sam said.

"Fuck off."

"Trying!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Dean slipped a finger inside and stroked right up against Sam's prostate. "Better?"

"I think we have potential," Sam gasped out. "What else have you got?"

Dean rolled his eyes and Sam was hit with another shock of cold as Dean slipped in a second lubed-up finger. 

"Still good?" Dean asked, his eyes briefly serious, a timeout from teasing to make sure Sammy was still okay.

_Shit. First, my dick is Princess and, now, I'm Sammy._

"I'm ready," Sam said.

"No, you're not."

"Really am."

"Really not."

He could feel Dean's fingers, not just wriggling, but stretching and twisting as he stroked.

"Really, really am," Sam gasped. "Please." 

Dean looked smug, damn him, as he popped his fingers out. He tossed the tube of lubricant onto the bedside table and stroked himself a few more times, smearing around more lube. Before Sam could complain again about him wasting time, Little Dean slid inside.

Sam's body went nearly limp, lying on his back, legs splayed. Dean was kneeling, sitting back on his heels, holding Sam's hips up at the right angle as he slowly thrust. This would have been easier if they'd propped Sam up on a pillow or something, but Dean didn't seem to be struggling with the weight at all, bracing Sam against his own thighs.

Sam could barely keep his eyes open, but he'd fought for this and he wasn't going to miss it. Dean looked like… like a drooling idiot really… but also like love incarnate. He was a beautiful, beautiful dweeb, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. 

Sam could almost hear the words with his soul before Dean even said them. "I love you. I love you so much, Sammy." 

"I love you," Sam squeaked back. 

"You… you still okay there?"

Dean checking in to make sure Sam was okay meant as much as any profession of love. "I love…" _God, could he even admit that out loud?_ No. There was absolutely no way he could just blurt out, "I love it when you take care of me. My big brother always looking out for me."

"My baby boy," Dean purred.

"Later, I'm going to one-hundred-percent deny we ever had this conversation," Sam said, panting as Dean increased his thrusts. "I love it when you call me Sammy."

"You like it when big brother takes charge, huh?"

Sam was writhing, itching for more friction, but aching for more tenderness. "You can't make fun of me for this later," he warned, "but I need you to hold me."

Dean reached down and stroked Princess. 

"Not like that. Me. Literally. Hold." Sam reached out. He had to look like a moron. Dean definitely gave him a condescending smirk, but it lasted only a second before Dean leaned down and wrapped his arms around him.

It meant Dean lost all of his leverage and those hot thrusts against his prostate were replaced with shallower thrusts that barely teased, but the important thing was that now Dean was right there, in his face. Sam licked out at Dean's lips and Dean rewarded him with a deep wet kiss.

Dean pulled back with a slurp. "Good?"

"Fucking awesome," Sam said.

Dean started nipping at his neck and all Sam could do was shudder wordlessly.

They clutched each other desperately, kissed and rolled, while Dean whispered increasingly stupid endearments. Sam tried to keep his hands off his own dick, still embarrassed by his earlier false start, but as Dean's moans and grunts got deeper he felt he'd held off long enough.

"I need… Dean, please, I need…" He couldn't even fit his hand between their bodies and, though the pressure was tantalizing, it was nowhere near enough.

Dean pulled out and Sam panicked for a fraction of a second, but, fortunately, Dean had finally got the message. Dean sat back on his heels and hoisted Sam's hips in the air. He settled back into position and thrust back in.

Princess bobbed happily in the air and Sam grabbed hold with both hands only for Dean to bat him away. 

"Mine," Dean said and took over stroking Sam off.

Sam clutched at the sheets on either side of him as Dean drove him straight over the edge. He arched up as his orgasm hit, not even touching the bed below his shoulders, with Dean still taking most of his weight as he pounded into his butt. Sam was about to beg Dean to stop, every nerve ending instantly too sensitive, but before he could get the words out, Dean shouted, "Oh, sweet Sammy!" and it was all over.

Dean pulled out and rolled over to collapse on the bed next to him. They just lay there panting for several moments.

"That was the best sex of my life," Sam said. "That was awesome."

" _We_ are _awesome_ ," Dean said.

Dean patted Sam on the shoulder—a familiar _good work, bro_ kind of pat—and then got out of bed to go pee in the bathroom. 

Sam had the lecture running through his head about post-sex hygiene. Urination was supposed to clear the pipes. _I should get up,_ Sam thought vaguely without moving a millimeter.

His eyes were just drifting closed when Dean, much closer now, called, "Hey! Why are there only two slices of pizza left?"

" _My_ pizza," Sam said, before Dean could eat it all. "I already gave you a piece. And because of math. We only had half a pizza, that's four slices, we each ate one. We have two slices left _because of math_."

"This is unacceptable," Dean muttered.

"Can't we just… cuddle?" Sam asked. He grabbed the washcloth that Dean had left handy and wiped himself off. He realized belatedly that they'd rolled right off the towel, so there was still going to be jizz on the sheets. "Maybe cuddle on the other bed."

"Hungry now," Dean mumbled around a slice of pizza.

"Hey!" Sam jumped up and grabbed the last slice before Dean could eat that too. Even as Sam was hastily snarfing the pizza, he could feel something inside… shifting… oozing. He decided to escape to the bathroom before he gave Dean the opportunity for any commentary on jizz farts.

He cleaned up and then walked back into the room to see Dean—still naked and beautiful—frowning at his cellphone as he typed something.

"What?"

Dean shrugged and handed the phone to Sam. There were two texts from their mother.

`[i think u broke cas]` followed by `[how do u feel re bowling 2morrow?]`

Dean's reply was a succinct `[what and what?]`

Sam looked up at Dean who was getting dressed again. The phone in Sam's hand chirped and a new text came in.

`[monday kagan's bowling nite. y/n? u said shoe rental gal was cute. y/n?]`

Dean's armor was back on along with his clothes, leaving Sam feeling naked in more than one sense of the word. "So, apparently you told Mom that the woman working the shoe rental counter at Kagan's bowling alley was cute?"

"Maybe," Dean said and when Sam frowned at him, he just shrugged and added, "well, she was."

"I think Mom wants to hit up Kagan's bowling alley tomorrow night just to make sure they don't have any more unexplained spares."

"Fine, whatever. What was that bit about breaking Castiel?" Dean started putting his shoes on and Sam felt increasingly panicked as he laced up.

"Are you planning to go somewhere?" Sam asked anxiously.

" _We_ are going to go grab some food," Dean said. "I don't know about you, but I worked up an appetite. Are you getting dressed or were you planning to pull a Lady Godiva? Your hair's almost long enough for it."

"Can you _not_ do that when I'm naked and we just had sex," Sam said. "I can deal with the teasing when my pants are on, but this really isn't fair."

Dean huffed impatiently. "What was that crap about Castiel?"

Since it was Dean's phone, Sam went ahead and just typed `[what was that crap about castiel?]` and waited.

A tense two minutes passed before the reply: `[we'll have a chat re ur manners 2morrow @ bowling alley. 6 for dinner? they hv burgers]`

"Uh… she wants to meet at the bowling alley around six o'clock and eat there. She apparently looked up the menu."

"And Castiel?"

The phone chirped again. `[cas angelsplaining poetry. v annoying. i blame u both.]`

Sam sighed. "He sounds fine." He handed Dean the phone and then started to get dressed.

Dean read the message and then scrolled back up and then looked up at Sam in horror. "You sassed Mom from _my_ phone?!"

"You were rude to me," Sam said meekly, not looking at Dean as he pulled his shirt on.

"I'm always rude to you!"

Sam sagged.

Dean deflated himself and then he toed his shoes back off.

"Come here," he said, walking up to Sam and taking both of his hands. "So, it sounds like there's nothing actually wrong with Castiel and we don't have to go out for more food _right_ now, so maybe we could just stay here a bit longer. Take a swim? Shuffleboard? Cuddle?"

Dean blinked at him with giant green eyes.

Sam shoved their stuff off of the clean bed and then tugged Dean down with him. 

"I'm trying not to be your high-maintenance, jealous boyfriend who constantly needs to be reassured that you really still love me," Sam whispered into his brother's ear as Dean unexpectedly settled into little-spoon position. "I just… kind of am."

"I really still love you, Sam," Dean said, turning slightly so he could look into his eyes. "Always."

"And the next cute waitress?" Sam asked. "Are you going to need time off your leash?"

"One, it's not a leash and, two, there are some cute waitresses out there who would not make you wait outside. You get me?"

He almost expected a flare of jealousy, but instead, Sam realized the suggestion had potential. "So… sharing, but… at the same time. I wouldn't have to…" 

"You start quoting Rick Astley and I'm out of here."

"That's fair."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

They snuggled for a good twenty minutes before Dean got restless and announced they should hit the pool.

"I thought you were hungry."

"Swim first and then food."

And because Dean couldn't go anywhere without making friends, swimming turned into joining a couple of old guys poolside for a doubles game of shuffleboard. Sam wasn't entirely sure he understood the rules even after they were explained several times. The men were in-laws; their wives sisters, both swimming wearing floral rubber swim caps. Sam had assumed they were all retired already, but it turned out the couples had flown down from Atlanta to scope out possible retirement housing with the idea of retiring in a few years and moving down. 

Sam stepped back and let Dean do the introductions, waiting to see if he would introduce them as siblings or as a couple. Dean did neither and instead improvised a story about being in town for a sales convention and gave them just enough information about their great business opportunity to have everyone back quickly away from the topic of the grand pyramid scheme.

They lost the shuffleboard game and Dean announced, "You bring shame to our entire sales division."

They finally headed out in search of food and, by that time, they were both starving. Between grave digging and sex and swimming, they'd burned a lot of calories.

"What do you want?" Dean asked. "Chili? Refried beans? Curried cauliflower?"

"I'm sensing a theme," Sam said.

"If you're gonna get loaded up on fart-fuel, it should be during the post-sex meal," Dean said with a wink.

" _Post_ -sex?" Sam repeated, innocently. "I thought this was just the intermission. Or… are you actually… worn out?"

"Excuse me?"

"No, no, I understand. You need more of a breather at your age."

They grabbed takeout Chinese food and went back to the hotel where they spent a few minutes eating eggrolls as suggestively as possible before fucking themselves silly. 

Dean continued to respond well to being held down and Sam suggested that tomorrow they try it with proper rope. Sam teased him and fucked him, carefully avoiding bringing him to climax. When Dean was finally begging to get off, Sam pulled out and switched position, and let Dean fuck him doggy-style. Sam had to admit the angle was better, but he kind of missed being able to look in Dean's eyes, so he kept craning his neck around as far as possible.

"This is the best sex of my life," Sam panted.

"You said that last time," Dean said.

"It keeps getting better."

"Amen."

Twenty minutes later, Dean's phone chirped: `[did u know "starry skies meet in her eyes" is bc lover's eyes beautiful like glittering night sky? might hv to kill him]`

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

By the time they met Mary and Castiel at the bowling alley on Monday night, Sam had lost track of how many times that he and Dean had had sex, but Dean checked his phone and informed him that their mother had forward at least four more _fun facts_ about human philosophers' and poets' analyses of the meaning of love.

The bowling alley had roughly the same color scheme as many laundromats, but without the bleach-faded feel. So much turquoise. They found Mary flirting with the woman at the shoe rental counter. "You're right. She's very cute."

Meanwhile, Castiel was over at the snack bar, where he was explaining the nature of love and human existence to an amused-looking brunette behind the counter. She had a plastic nametag that said NICKY pinned to the top of her apron. She was biting her lower lip and maybe it was a quirk, some habit she just did all the time, but Sam suspected she was biting back the urge to talk back… or laugh.

Castiel was gesturing enthusiastically. "—loves freely, purely, with passion, with the very breath. Love is _transcendent_ , given of God and Grace, and Elizabeth promises her husband she 'shall but love thee better after death' and into eternity. Did you know love had such power? Such endurance?"

Nicky sighed and nodded.

"But Robert Herrick, he speaks of rosebuds opening as a woman opens to a man, of the urgency of love and copulation, encouraging lovers to 'use your time, and while ye may, go marry,' because youth and sexual vitality, once past, never return."

Nicky bit her lip hard enough that it looked painful. 

"Love is… both urgent and permanent, ephemeral and eternal. Isn't that… amazing?"

"Amazing," Nicky repeated, resting her chin on her hands, elbows on the counter.

If it hadn't been Cas, Sam would have been tempted to call that flirting as well—although, really only Castiel would flirt by giving a poetry appreciation lecture. 

"I'm so confused," Dean said.

Mary abandoned the shoe rental counter and slipped in between Sam and Dean taking both of their arms. "You. Broke. Him."

"Is he…" Dean stopped and just stared at the angel. "Is he _high_?"

"Very," Mary agreed. "And apparently I have a thing for the strong silent type because I don't think this is working for me."

That didn't seem to be a problem for the waitress that Castiel was chatting to because Dean— _Dean_ —had to try twice to get her attention so they could order their burgers. 

Castiel stood up and hugged them both and then—possibly too little, too late—hugged Mary. She took advantage of the conversational break to take her turn flirting with the waitress. Sam couldn't tell if she was trying to make Castiel jealous or just snub him or if honestly _all_ the Winchesters were more flexible than he had previously realized. Whatever, Nicky was having a great shift.

Nicky wasn't really Sam's type. She was a bit older with streaks of gray in her otherwise black hair, skin unusually pale for a Florida resident. It gave her a vague Bride of the Monster vibe. The lenses in her cat-eye frames were so thick that she had to be nearly blind without them and her eyes were comically magnified. She didn't seem like the kind of person who would be accustomed to the attention that Mary and Castiel were giving her. Dean gave her a quick once over out of habit and he seemed to approve as well. She was fit enough, Sam would admit, but he didn't see the appeal.

"You're doing that thing again," Dean said. "Chill."

"What thing?"

"You do not have to be the prettiest one in the room," Dean said. "I mean, you _are_ the prettiest one in the room, obviously, but you don't _have_ to be, so stop glowering at every attractive person you see."

They ate their burgers and then rented shoes and bowled for the rest of the evening. Dean won every game until the last one when somehow Castiel bowled a perfect 300. 

A crowd formed as Castiel closed in on a perfect score and cheers went up when he made the final strike. The alley awarded him a free beer, which Mary snagged, and a plate of nachos which was also going to be fair game.

"I told you," someone said as they wandered off back to their own lane, "Mondays are magic here."

Dean frowned. "That was all you?" he asked Castiel. "No ghostly assists on the last game?"

"All me," Castiel said, smiling proudly. "You were getting cocky."

"That's good," Sam said. "You almost had me worried."

"You used your angel juice to cheat is what you're saying," Dean said. "You pull pranks now?"

"You. Broke. Him."

"Life is meant to be enjoyed," Castiel said. "And I assure you, I sensed no spectral presence."

"I'm feeling better about The Festival this Saturday," Mary admitted. "It should be a small crowd without Price's lure, so we can keep a close eye on everyone."

"Small crowd means higher probability something happens to one of _us_ though," Sam pointed out, feeling silly for worrying even as he worried. "I mean, we solved the case, so nothing's going to happen to anyone, but _if it did_ there's a higher chance it will be one of us."

"What's the film this week?" Dean asked. "I'd like to know ahead of time what we're getting into. I imagine they're going with something low-key, but we need to make sure there's at least one death scene to properly test it."

Nicky the waitress returned with a plate of honest-to-God nachos with beans, onions, tomatoes, and actual cheese. Sam had been expecting chips and that cheesy sauce that always reminded him of molten plastic. 

"You're talking about the film festival?" Nicky asked conversationally. "I was thinking of going to that. It sounds fun."

"Film festival?" Sam asked.

She reached into her apron and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Sam unfolded it and gawked. The header read [SUMMER FILM FESTIVAL OF DEATH](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/b1uemorpho/21390328/24396/24396_800.jpg). "Dude. Just _dude_. Well," he said handing the flyer to Dean, "you wanted to give it a _proper_ test."

" _Carrie?_ " Dean boggled. "They're showing _Carrie_?"

"And look at the tease they've written up," Sam said.

Dean handed it to Mary who read aloud, "'Come see classic 1970s horror movies at the site of the Henry Kagan murders. You've read in the paper about the crazed Hollywood lawyer who faked his own death before going on a matinee murder spree, killing one victim at each 3pm Saturday show. Five murders! One theater! Now see it with your own eyes! Eight spine-tingling tales of terror over two days at The Festival with our feature murder matinee _Carrie_. Are _you_ brave enough to sit in one of the Death Seats?! Will _you_ survive?!'"

"Yeah, I can't do that matinee," Nicky said. "I don't even consider myself superstitious, but sitting in the same matinee where the victims were all killed? The Saturday midnight showing looks fun though. I might go see _Blacula_."

"This smells like Carl," Dean said.

"Did you get this flyer down at the beach?" Sam asked.

"No, some stoner guy brought them in this morning. I've seen them all over town."

"It's going to be packed," Mary said.

"I thought you had said that without the magical lure, news of the deaths would keep people away," Castiel said.

"Thing is, people," Dean said and paused. "People are like cats. They go where you tell them they shouldn't be. Trying to get them to come to a nice entertaining movie while ignoring the gruesome news in the papers doesn't work. But _daring_ them to attend a horror movie at the scene of the crime? Yeah, it's gonna be packed."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone doesn't care about the sex (?!) and is just following the plot, such as it is, you can skip straight to the final chapter. The next chapter does not contain a single word of plot.


	21. You're Welcome

°•°♥°•°♥°•°

They went back to their motel and with nothing left to do but wait for Saturday, Sam and Dean screwed like bunnies.

Castiel had either stopped sharing his thoughts on the nature of human love or Mary had just stopped listening to him. By the end of the week they had only gotten one more text from her stating `[*who knew* asking a lover to "come 2 me in my dreams" is about visits *and* climaxes]` and that didn't come close to representing the number of times that the angel was bombarded with second-hand orgasmic bliss.

Sam got the good rope from the car and practiced tying Dean up with a variety of knots. Dean managed to escape every time, but conveniently always just _after_ getting off. Dean offered to return the favor, which was really not Sam's thing, but he agreed to give it a go.

"Whatever. Sure." Sam just didn't see the point other than as practice escaping from different knots, which frankly seemed like it would be distracting from the fun sex part. "Let me just hit the bathroom first."

They could have just as easily stayed bare naked all week. Sam would have even been willing to give up forays out for food. However, it occurred to him that while they were appeasing Dean's odd bondage kink, Sam could play out one of his own little fantasies. By the time he walked out of the bathroom, he was fully dressed in clean clothes, complete with a long-sleeved flannel buttoned over a T-shirt. He even put on socks although he skipped the shoes as overkill.

Dean was naked, hard, and mildly annoyed. "Dude?!"

"You want your present, you gotta unwrap it yourself," Sam said and lay down on the bed feeling smug.

Dean complained that he was an idiot, but his dick looked pretty happy at the idea.

Sam tensed his muscles as Dean tied his arms together, trying to bulk out and give himself some slack to work with later. Dean, however, was on to that trick and coiled the rope around Sam's wrists where flexing didn't do him any good. Worse, he tied Sam so that the fingers of each hand were pointed at the opposite elbow so he couldn't coordinate between hands. It was a comfortable position at least. He could have achieved the same effect just by clasping his own forearms. Yet he really wasn't sure how to go about getting free. This was going to take awhile and it irked him that Dean was apparently going to win this game.

Sam was going to have to get much more creative at tying knots before his next turn. 

And then Dean confused him further by positioning Sam on the bed face-up and _crosswise_. "Dude?"

"You'll see," Dean said and then disappeared under the side of the bed by Sam's head.

Sam felt his bonds pull taut over his head and he realized that Dean had found framework under the bed to tie him to. He wasn't just being tied up; he was being tied _down_. He felt a moment of uncertainty even as his dick gave an optimistic twitch.

"You remember that the safeword is artichoke?" Sam reminded Dean, unable to keep a slight tremor out of his voice.

Dean rose back into view, upside down from Sam's perspective, a look of concern on his face. "You remember that 'I don't want to' is perfectly fine too?" Dean asked. "There is nothing wrong with classic vanilla sex."

"I'm good," Sam insisted.

Dean rolled his eyes and patted Sam on the cheek. He stood up and walked around the bed eyeing Sam as if deciding where to start.

Sam tested his bonds. His arms were firmly lashed to each other and tied by way of a second rope or perhaps the ends of the same rope to something somewhere out of sight underneath the bed. If he rolled, he was pretty sure he could turn over onto his stomach. He was currently on his back and his legs were free, but his feet skittered right off the edge of the bed when he tried to adjust his position.

If this were the sort of situation in which Sam was accustomed to being tied up, his best chance for escape would be to flip over onto the floor and see if his captor had gotten lazy and just tied him to a slat or something else that he could pull free.

Of course, he wasn't actually motivated to escape this time.

"Comfortable?" Dean asked. "I don't want you pulling any muscles."

"I'm fine," Sam said. He was not going to admit that his clothes were a mistake. The motel's AC wasn't even close to adequate. He was already starting to sweat. He'd taken it for granted that Dean would have gotten him undressed by now, but Dean was clearly planning to take his time.

Dean paced around the bed again and rubbed his jaw in contemplation. Sam didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't staring at Dean's dick the whole time.

Dean smiled and asked, "Any more special requests?"

 _Just get me naked already,_ Sam thought.

"Surprise me," Sam said.

Dean crawled onto the bed and up over Sam. He gave him a deep, wet, lingering kiss that might have been twenty kisses. Sam wasn't sure whether to count the moments where Dean pulled away to lick at Sam's lips as the end of one kiss and the beginning of the next or if the whole thing was just one mega kiss.

Dean kept his body—his beautiful naked body—just out of reach. When Sam tried to tilt his hips up in search of contact, his feet only slipped off the edge of the bed again.

Sam tugged at his ropes. He wasn't trying to pull free; he just couldn't stop the impulse to reach out and grab Dean. He didn't think they'd be trying this particular scenario again. So far, it was just incredibly frustrating.

He twisted his head to the side and gasped out, "Sometime this year?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him and sat back on Sam's hips, deliberately positioning himself over the bulge in Sam's jeans.

"Now, see," Dean said, rubbing his hands over Sam's shirt, "this here suggests you were looking forward to a bit of a tease.

"Dude, teasing is one thing, but you haven't even unbuttoned a single button yet."

Dean smiled a crooked smile and leaned forward to unbutton one, _exactly_ one, button on Sam's shirt.

"Why do I always forget what an asshole you are?" Sam asked.

"Mind your language," Dean teased, feigning shock as if he weren't naked and straddling Sam's dick. "I might just have to take you over my knee if you don't behave."

"Oh, God," Sam moaned, bucking up against Dean.

"Whoa there, cowboy. My baby boy really does have a butt thing, doesn't he?"

For whatever reason, his first instinct was to deny it. It wasn't even a particularly embarrassing kink and yet he hesitated before admitting, "I think I kind of do a little, yeah."

"Maybe I'll have to take you over my knee even if you _are_ a good boy then."

All Sam could do was whimper and writhe.

Dean ran his hands back up Sam's chest and unbuttoned just one more button.

"I hate you so much," Sam said.

Dean only smiled, ran his hands back down Sam's chest, and then slipped both hands under the hem of Sam's shirt. He immediately dashed Sam's hopes, by sliding between the layers and when his hands returned to Sam's chest, they were still above his cotton T-shirt.

Dean rubbed Sam's nipples through the fabric and said, "So are you willing to admit you're a little overdressed?"

"You're punishing me for getting dressed, aren't you?" Sam could feel pre-ejaculate oozing into his underwear and Dean had only undone two of his buttons. He was actually going to come in his pants at this rate. "I only got dressed because I wanted you to undress me."

"That's going backward to go forward," Dean said shaking his head.

"I've just," Sam stammered, a little amazed that he was about to share the fantasy. "I've kind of had this fantasy for a while now where you, you make me get naked, where you take my clothes off and then maybe, maybe spank me once you've got my pants down."

Dean blinked at him, momentarily speechless. "That's, uh, that's. Wow. Uh, how long is 'a while'?"

"I'm not into real violence," Sam said, carefully prefacing the admission. "Pain and fear are not turn-ons. At all. When you were a demon, you scared the life out of me. But. You were also _really hot_."

Dean's eyes went wide. "That. That would have been bad. If you had shared that fantasy back then, I, I would have done it."

 _Fuck._ Sam was so close.

Dean continued with his too-late warning of how bad it could have been. Sam didn't think Dean got that he was just turning him on even more. "Seriously, Sammy. Demon-me wouldn't have hesitated. I wouldn't have been gentle at all. I would have just fucking fucked…"

Sam took a series of deep breaths. Okay, technically he might have been panting. He turned his attention back to the rope. His hands were bound together above his head. The only way he could get any slack in the rope was to extend his arms even farther off the mattress out of sight. He would literally have to feel his way free. The rope was coiled three times around each wrist separately before wrapping around both. It wasn't going to budge. He was truly fucked. As he tested it, it became clear he was tied to the bed frame with the same rope, which meant if he could just find _that_ knot and get it loose…

He failed to make any progress at all on his bonds, but it kept him just distracted enough that he didn't embarrass himself with another premature ejaculation. He hadn't had a hair trigger like this since he was a teenager. It was kind of ridiculous.

Dean finally unbuttoned the rest of Sam's shirt and pulled it up over his arms, leaving it bunched over his bound hands. The T-shirt quickly joined it. It made him feel even more trapped, but it would also hide his hands from Dean, so there was a chance that Dean wouldn't catch him trying to escape.

Dean licked Sam's chest and all thoughts of escape slipped away. The idiot was just licking his pecs, broad swipes of his tongue, completely avoiding his nipples.

"You're trying to kill me," Sam gasped.

Dean laughed smugly before sucking one of Sam's nipples into his mouth. Sam quickly distracted himself with the rope again. If he could just find the knot…

Dean shifted position and came up for another mega kiss. "I'm going to take such good care of you, Sammy," he whispered between kisses.

Something wet dripped onto Sam's bellybutton.

Sam craned his head to confirm that Little Dean was indeed glistening. "Dear God, just fucking fuck me already," Sam begged.

Dean laughed and started licking his way down Sam's body. He paused to lick Sam's navel clean and Sam shivered at the thought of Dean tasting himself. His own mouth watered. Damn, it wasn't like it was even a particularly pleasant taste, but he wanted it.

"Let me suck you off," Sam begged. He reconsidered the fantasy and amended, " _Make_ me suck you off."

Dean didn't alter his trajectory at all. He just kept working his way down. Sam was at least grateful that he was finally at his waistband. The jeans had to come off now.

Except they didn't.

Dean just switched tactics and started fondling Sam through the denim, the zipper in exactly the wrong place. He groped along the inside of Sam's thighs and back up at his crotch, pawing at his balls.

"All yours," Sam encouraged. "Come and get it."

Dean stood up between Sam's legs at the edge of the bed, still rubbing up and down Sam's jeans and Sam finally saw the potential of this position. Sam wriggled down as far as the rope would allow. His ass was still too far from the edge of the bed and if Dean was planning what he thought he was, Sam needed to help out a little.

Of course, Dean was not planning what he thought he was. Instead of getting Sam's jeans off, Dean very, very, _very_ slowly—and smirking at Sam like the absolute shithead that Dean was—pulled off Sam's right sock.

"I'm going to kick you in the head," Sam declared.

Dean eyed Sam's bare foot as if considering the threat and then went in with his tongue.

"Ew," Sam said. He had done a pre-sex wipe down in the bathroom ahead of time, preparing for, even encouraging, as much tongue action as possible, but it had not occurred to him to wash his feet. "Dude, seriously, my ass is cleaner than my feet."

Dean ignored him and sucked Sam's toes one by one.

"Toes are a thing now?" Sam asked. Toes were boring. It would have been a good opportunity to work on getting the rope untied. Or possibly cut. When he moved his arms side to side, he could feel the rope snagging on something. However, Sam had sabotaged himself by pulling the rope so tight that he had no maneuvering room.

Dean stopped sucking and started licking at the tender skin between Sam's toes. If Dean hadn't had a solid grip on Sam's leg, Sam _would_ have kicked him in the head, completely unintentionally. Sam shuddered and flailed, the involuntary response shocking him completely.

Dean paused and tilted his head. "Huh. It seems toes are, indeed, a thing now. Good to know."

Sam tried to protest that being ticklish was not the same thing as having a toe kink, but the bulge in his jeans was calling him a liar before he could even get the words out. Thus all he ended up saying aloud was something like, "Gahhhhh!"

Dean dropped his foot and grabbed the other one, massaging the sole of Sam's foot through the sock.

Sam was officially out of patience. "Dude, do not make me safeword on you! Get! Me! Naked! _Now_!"

Dean huffed and tsked at him, but pulled the sock off and flung it over his shoulder and, with no more distractions, went for Sam's jeans.

Unbuttoned. Unzipped. Tugged free. Flung. The underwear followed the jeans to the floor.

"Oh, poor Princess," Dean cooed as Sam's dick throbbed, discolored and leaking. "Was Sammy mean to you? Did he lock you up in a bunch of sweaty denim?"

"Dude." Sam's only coherent thought was, _That's not how you flirt!_

"Should we punish Sammy?" Dean asked and then _pressed his ear_ to Sam's dick. "Princess says Sammy has earned a spanking."

Hottest fantasy ever coming true and Sam was choking with laughter so badly that he thought he might pass out from lack of oxygen.

"Roll over," Dean said.

Sam tried and if he'd been able to think clearly and, y'know, _breathe_ , he might have been able to, but he'd pulled the rope too tight and his own elbows were getting in his way.

"Here," Dean said and crawled up onto the bed next to Sam. He slipped both forearms under Sam, one under his thighs and the other under his back and lifted Sam like a pallet on a forklift and shifted him half a meter towards the other bed.

For a disorienting moment, Sam felt his head sliding off the edge of the bed, but he now had all the slack he needed and then some.

Sam was just trying to think how best to flip over without injuring himself. Without his hands free to brace himself, he was kind of vulnerable. His dick's tendency to just stand out at a right angle to his body could actually be a little dangerous if he wasn't careful.

Before he could even voice his concern, Dean placed a protective hand over Sam's dick and nudged him to roll onto Dean's arm.

The words _Always taking care of me_ flitted through Sam's brain and possibly spilled out of his mouth, but he'd deny that later. He rolled over onto Dean's hand, moaning at the first real friction his dick had gotten in ten thousand years.

Dean made sure Sam's dick was safely tucked up against the mattress before removing his hand and then, without warning, gave Sam's ass a solid slap.

Sam yelped and Princess leaked even more pre-ejaculate onto the mattress.

Dean snickered and started massaging Sam's ass. Like that first time, Dean started with a gentle caress, but this time Sam wasn't wearing boxers. The direct skin-to-skin contact, especially on top of nerve-endings still tingling from the slap, was too much and Sam started humping the mattress.

"Hey, none of that now," Dean said and spanked him again.

Sam couldn't just go from overdrive to a hard stop in an instant and he earned three more slaps before he could still his hips.

Dean smoothed his hand over Sam's stinging backside, almost petting him. "That's a good boy," he purred and suddenly in his normal-Dean voice he added, "That wasn't too hard was it?"

Sam tugged at the rope while he tried to clear his head. He wasn't going to lie and claim it hadn't hurt. Dean might take that as a challenge. Yet he didn't want Dean to ease off any either. "I can take it."

Wrong answer. Dean eased off. He returned to just gently petting Sam's ass, which Sam _liked_ , absolutely, no question. He liked it, but he liked it as a prelude. Butt-pets were for flirting and cuddling, which Sam felt they were well past now.

"Please, I need more," Sam begged. "Please."

Dean started kneading Sam's ass, squeezing and spreading his cheeks.

Sam shuddered. "More."

"On your knees," Dean growled out, voice husky, a hint of a quaver. Damn, Dean sounded like he was about to pop too. How could he stand to keep dragging this out?

Sam used the rope as leverage to pull himself to a kneeling position, legs wide to make room for Dean. It scooted him too close to the edge of the bed and his bound hands slipped and he caught himself roughly with his armpits. He was a hot mess, but he didn't care. He had no pride left to even pretend he wasn't desperate and eager for Little Dean to pound him into next week.

Dean grabbed him by both cheeks and pulled them apart, but it was a tongue, not a penis that Sam felt next. Dean moaned obscenely as if Sam's ass sweat tasted like pie. At least it was fresh ass sweat. Dean owed Sam big time for cleaning himself thoroughly in advance.

Dean licked as far forward as Sam's balls and then all the way back up his full crack and then zeroed back in on the target, his tongue wriggling at Sam's asshole.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna come!" Sam yelled.

Dean immediately stopped. "Not yet you don't," he said, slapping Sam's ass.

Apparently Dean did not yet fully appreciate Sam's spanking kink because that was the exact opposite of helpful if his goal was to slow Sam down. Unable to find the words to explain, Sam only whimpered and wriggled his butt in full presentation mode. _My ass. Get inside it. Before it's too late._

Dean spanked Sam again growling, "You don't come until I tell you to come."

" _I am going to fucking come!_ " Sam shouted again.

Dean finally, _finally_ got the message and stopped entirely. "Breathe, Sammy," he said. "Take your time. Let me know when you are ready to start again."

Sam tried to wipe a lock of sweaty hair out of his face, but the rope snagged on something and he couldn't reach. Tilting his head down to his hands only made more hair fall into his face. _The rope,_ he thought. _Focus on the rope._

He was still on his knees, chest against the edge of the mattress, awkwardly bracing his bound hands on the floor. It wasn't a good position for fucking, but it was an ideal position for getting at the knot. He couldn't see what he was doing, but craning his head up, he could see the opposite bed, could analyze the position of the springs and bolts. If he could just hook the rope right _there_ and then tug back _that way_.

Sam laughed as the knot almost undid itself, the coils falling loose. Too loose. Sam snatched up the ends of the rope, pulled the coils tightly around his wrists again, and then held on to the loose ends.

Just because he _could_ get free didn't mean he _wanted_ to get free. Dean didn't need to know just yet.

He'd never understood the bondage thing until… he suddenly realized that it was hot, that it was all sensation. No actions to second guess, just Dean doing things to him, and all he was expected to do, all he _could_ do was accept it. He almost regretted getting the knot loose before they were done.

He wasn't tied to the bed anymore and that was an advantage at least. He gathered his strength and pushed himself back so that he was no longer falling off the edge.

Dean seemed to see the wisdom of this and grabbed Sam by the hips and pulled. Together they got Sam re-centered, kneeling, elbows on the mattress, 'bound' hands hidden from Dean's view.

"I'm ready," Sam said, slightly more clearheaded for the breather. "Please, now. I want to come. I just don't want to come before you fuck me."

"That sounds like a plan," Dean said and in a moment his slick hand was massaging at Sam's rectum.

Sam moaned his encouragement and Dean slipped two fingers inside, gliding easily with lube. There was a distinct advantage of a week-long sex marathon, which Sam was sort of hoping was going to be a lifelong sex marathon.

Dean began to give Sam a slow anal massage, which Sam would have appreciated another time. It would have been especially nice as a gradual build-up if Sam needed those muscles relaxed after a dry spell. Maybe the next time a long hunt kept them from enjoying private time, they could start back up with a nice slow fingering.

Sam did not need a nice slow fingering.

It occurred to him that he had a spare rope in his hands. It would have been pretty easy with the element of surprise. He could get Dean tied up in just a few minutes. Dean might not even put up a fight. It also occurred to him—and this revelation was a bit of a shock—that he didn't _want_ to do that.

In a measured tone that was only a little husky, Sam said, "Spank me or fuck me—bonus points if you can figure out how to do both—but foreplay is over now. Save the gentle fondling for next time. I don't need any more prep."

Dean pulled his fingers out, slapped Sam once across the ass—a hard stinging slap that very nearly brought him over the crest of orgasm—and then grabbed Sam's hips and pulled him closer to the side of the bed.

Dean stood up on the floor beside the bed for solid leverage as he plunged his dick up Sam's anus.

"Fucking _finally_!" Sam shouted.

"You're an ungrateful little brat, you know that?" Dean grunted as he thrust, one, two, three, four, five times.

And then pulled all the way out.

"No!" Sam whimpered.

Dean stepped back and spanked Sam again, one, two, three, four, five times.

And then he slammed his dick back inside Sam, roughly clutching his hips as he thrust. "Is that the way you like it, Sammy? Is that what you want?"

At some point in the future they would debrief—after Sam could remember how words worked—and he would find a way to articulate the difference between spanking as arousing foreplay and spanking as an unwelcome interruption of hot fucking, but in the meantime, all Sam could say was something like "Wahuhuhuh!"

Dean pulled out again and gave Sam another round of spanking.

"Fuck. Fuck me."

Dean plowed back home.

"Stay fucking!" Sam ordered, not trusting Dean to hear the words _don't stop_ without putting punctuation in the wrong place. "Stay fucking. Stay. This. This. Just this. Fuck so good."

"So fucking good," Dean agreed. "Oh, yeah."

Dean finally started rocking in a good steady rhythm. As the momentum built, Dean got more vocal. Sam thought all the pleasure centers of his brain were already firing at max, but the sound of Dean starting to lose his shit made it all even better.

"I love you so much," Dean moaned. "So much. You're so hot. So good. My Sammy. Oh, God, I love you."

Dean still had both hands firmly on Sam's hips, leaving Sam's dick just a little bit ignored. Sam could easily reach to touch himself, but he would not have been able to if he hadn't gotten the rope untied. Hence, it sort of felt like cheating.

"Beautiful, beautiful, Sammy. So good. Oh. We should have… God, we should have been doing this our whole lives. No one has ever been so perfect for me."

Sam didn't quite know how to respond. It didn't seem like a good time to point out that neither one of them was touching Sam's dick. "Forever," he gasped. "We've got forever. The rest of our lives and beyond. This is our Heaven, man. We die and the other side of the great beyond we've got a tacky hotel with our name on it. Overchlorinated pool. Cigarette burns on the carpet. And I'm going to love every century of it. Every millennium."

"Fuck!" Dean moaned and a moment later, _"Sammy!"_

Dean collapsed onto Sam's back, clutching Sam's chest, rubbing his hands over Sam's sensitive nipples, possibly not even on purpose.

"Uh, Dean," Sam said. "You had one job."

"I got you," Dean murmured blearily.

Sam very much doubted that.

"Dean, I swear if you fall asleep on me…"

"Always complaining," Dean muttered. He yawned and crawled off Sam's back. Without warning, he swatted Sam's ass and said, "Roll over."

Sam rolled onto his back as Dean slid to his knees on the floor.

"So pretty," Dean murmured reaching out one finger to delicately brush Sam's dick. "Who could have imagined my little baby would grow up to be such a pretty man."

"Dean."

"I can't believe all the time we spent hustling pool when you could have just been a pornstar."

"Dean."

"How do you want to come?" Dean said. "Give me say half an hour and I could fuck you again. Jerk you off while I do it. Or give me ten minutes or so and you can fuck me. Better? Or if you're not patient enough for that…"

Dean slipped his fingers up Sam's ass again, found his prostate, and started rubbing out a perfect pulsing rhythm.

"…you could come down my throat right now," Dean finished, licking his lips.

"That one!" Sam gasped. That first option struck Sam as inexplicably exciting. He wondered how many times Dean could fuck him in a row, keeping Sam on edge all night long. They would have to use proper shackles someday and find out, but as long as Sam _could_ get untied, he'd never be able to stand it. "I want to get off _right now_."

Dean laughed and then sucked Sam down. He was doing something magical with his fingers inside Sam at the same time. Sam gave up all pretense of still being tied down and let the rope fall to the floor so he could pinch his own nipples.

Dean slurped back off of Sam's dick. "You lying cheater," he said. "How long have you been free?"

"Too long? Not long enough? I have no idea." Sam wriggled on Dean's fingers and he continued pinching and fondling his nipples. "Come on, man. After all of this, don't make me jerk myself off."

Dean dodged Sam's attempt to shove his head back down and instead laughed and pulled his fingers out of Sam's butt. As Sam whimpered, he smeared his semen-covered fingers over Sam's lips.

"Shhh, baby brother. No fear." He crawled up onto the bed and kissed Sam and whispered into his ear. "Let me tell you what's going to happen. I'm going to suck you down one last time and you're going to come for me. Okay? You're going to come like you have never come before and you're going to shoot a full load of hot, fresh, Grade A Sam Winchester juice down your big brother's throat. Can you do that for me?"

"Uh-huh. Yeah. I can. I can definitely do that."

"Good boy."

Dean settled back down on the floor between Sam's legs. He enveloped Sam's dick at the exact same moment that he slid his fingers back up inside.

Sam moaned and closed his eyes. He willed everything to go away besides the pure sensation of Dean's fingers and tongue. The entire world collapsed into Dean. Dean was everything. Dean wanted Sam's semen and Sam didn't really understand why, but he was willing to turn himself inside out to give Dean every last drop.

Sam lost all concept of time. He would like to think he lasted a respectable amount of time, but he also wouldn't rule out the possibility that the blowjob had only lasted several seconds. He'd been teased beyond all reason, so no one could blame him. The orgasm itself was also timeless. Everything went in slow motion as Dean sucked and slurped unable to keep up with the waves of jizz that pumped out of Sam's body.

Sam's full body convulsed, an involuntary ab workout as he rose off the bed yelling, "God damn, Dean, you are the best lover on Earth!" And that was some embarrassing shit that Dean was going to be smug about for weeks, but damn if it wasn't true.

Dean climbed onto the bed and pulled Sam with him so they were lined up properly with their heads on the pillows. Sam shuddered again as Dean curled around him and kissed his cheek.

"Princess is a God-damned rock star," Dean said. "You should be proud."

Sam just gasped for breath in silence.

"We need to do some boring missionary sex next time," Dean said. "All this high-intensity shit is gonna kill me."

 _Gonna kill you?_ Sam thought. Yet even as the complaint was forming on his lips, what he actually said was. "I think I saw some leather straps in one of the storerooms in the bunker. The kind with buckles. They were even padded. I don't think I can get out of those. I have an idea for them. You're going to have to eat your Wheaties though. I'm not sure you have the stamina for it now."

"We actually _have_ a sex dungeon, don't we?" Dean said, lifting his head just enough so that he could smirk at Sam.

"You have jizz in your hair."

"You're welcome."

°•°♥°•°♥°•°


	22. How Is This Our Life?

°•°♥°•°♥°•°  


 

They arrived at the _Carrie_ matinee on Saturday to find a line at the box office. The pale woman selling tickets looked familiar, but Sam couldn't put a name to her—or even the circumstances under which they could have met—even after she sold them their tickets.

Mary had apparently taken Castiel shopping because he looked ready for _Book of Mormon_ tryouts in a short-sleeved business shirt and tie. He didn't quite match Sam and Dean's own outfits, but it was close enough that they looked like they belonged together.

Mary herself had found something tasteful and uncharacteristically feminine.

"It was the only thing I could find that didn't have a flower print on it," she snapped before either of them had said a thing. Yeah, Dean definitely got his chick-hangup from Mom.

"It looks…" The next word on Dean's lips was almost certainly intended to be flattering, but Mary glared at him and Dean continued, "very practical. Come on, Sammy. Let's get popcorn."

"Sam," Sam corrected, blushing slightly.

Dean shot Sam a bemused look over his shoulder as he headed for the snack bar.

Streamers and balloons framed the snack bar's price list and someone had cut out mismatched construction paper to spell out PROM '76 with a smattering of glitter for that extra class.

Krissy Anne was back behind the counter making daiquiris as fast as she could along with another woman that Sam did not recognize. Her hair was tied up into two… ponytails? ponypuffs? ponyfros? He'd lay odds that Dean would call them ponyfros, but it would be rude to ask within earshot. A small Asian woman was selling popcorn.

Suddenly it clicked. "Vivian?"

"Yeah?" she said suspiciously and then it clicked for her too. "FBI dude?"

"Wait," Dean said, "was that White Ashley at the ticket counter?"

"Her thesis… it wasn't that great. Yeah. She's stuck down here for at least one more semester and her parents are 'not paying for that shit'."

"So, her fall-back plan is to pay for a semester of college by working at the movie theater?" Sam asked skeptically.

"She's not majoring in math," Vivian said.

"Let's keep it moving," the other woman said. "You can chat with your friends after everyone in line has been served."

Vivian had a MY NAME IS sticker on her shirt with her name written in with a Sharpie. This woman had an engraved brass pin that spelled out TANYA.

"You're the old manager," Dean said. "Sophie mentioned you."

Tanya didn't pause in filling daiquiri orders, each with a generous helping of rum, but she nodded. "We tried to get Sophie back, but she was pretty adamant. She had a list. That's how we ended up with these two." She waved vaguely at Vivian with the implication that White Ashley was included. 

"How'd they win _you_ back?" Sam asked Tanya.

"Carl, bless him, worked some sort of deal with the owner, old Mr. Price. If we can do better sales yesterday and today than we did on the average Friday and Saturday under Andrew Price, then young Mr. Price is out and I'm back in with full management authority _and_ a pay raise. Based on last night's tallies, I think we've already kicked his butt. However, _some people_ ," Tanya side-eyed Krissy Anne as she said it, "are a little nervous about this matinee. So, let's just say we aren't counting any chickens." 

"You'll want to get in there if you want to sit together," Vivian said. "It's filling up fast. We charged $20 for the reserved Death Seats and they still sold out first thing."

"C'mon, Sam," Dean said. "Let's go watch Sissy Spacek get bloodied up."

They grabbed their popcorn and fountain drinks and went in. Vivian hadn't been kidding about the place filling up. Sam and Dean managed to get seats together in the very last row where they could keep an eye on the rest of the house. 

Mary and Castiel walked in a few moments later, each carrying a pink daiquiri, and they had to sit off to the side in order to stay together.

The Festival hadn't had an update in, likely, _ever_ and there were no cupholders in the armrests. Everything would have been fine with one hand for the popcorn and one hand for the soft drink, but Dean slipped his arm around Sam's shoulders. Since he no longer had a hand free for popcorn, Dean ignored the bucket in his lap and kept trying to snag Sam's popcorn straight from his hand. Quite recently that would have been merely gross and annoying, but there was no longer anything remotely innocent about Dean's tongue making contact with his skin.

"Dude! Quit it!"

Dean huffed, but before he could vocally protest, a stranger took the seat on Dean's other side and a moment later a woman sat down next to Sam. It was literally a full house. Dean sulkily retracted his arm and ate his own popcorn.

The house lights dimmed and just when a preview would have started at any other theater, a voice filled the house, surprising everyone. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the familiar voice intoned as Carl did his best announcer shtick over the sound system. "Welcome to the show you've been waiting for. _The_ Saturday matinee at The Festival. One question remains: will you make it out alive?" A cackle worthy of Vincent Price echoed through the space as everyone cheered.

"Carl is some kind of mad genius," Dean said as the film rolled.

Sam kept having to remind himself to pay attention to the other people in the theater and not the film itself or the hunter at his side. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he could make out all the shapes, each person lit by the flickering images on the screen.

Sam paused with a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth when the period blood scene started. He always forgot about that scene even though he was sure it was the setup for the finale. The later pig's blood scene only made sense as a public mocking of _this_ moment.

"Girls are metal," Dean whispered as he continued to chomp popcorn without pause. Sam had to shush him. They were used to watching movies together in motel rooms where a running commentary was not only allowed but actually appreciated.

Almost everyone sat transfixed, startling and screaming as one as Carrie's telekinesis grew. Trivial moments like shattered lightbulbs and flying ashtrays were still good for an effective jump scare. That included Dean who had a tendency to cling during scary movies in complete contrast to his reaction to threats in real life.

Sam flattered himself that Dean was just looking for an excuse to cuddle, but one yelp of surprise—as Carrie shattered a mirror with her mind—felt quite genuine as Dean spilled popcorn all over the sticky floor. Dean didn't play games with food.

One older guy seemed to nod off during one of the non-screamy scenes and Sam was worried until his female companion elbowed him awake.

A few seats to their left a couple of teenagers starting making out. The middle-aged woman between Sam and them tried to protest only to be laughed at. Sam flashed his badge and suggested they leave. They left. 

The woman also left, but she returned a few minutes later with a large popcorn that she offered Sam for his chivalry. Since Dean had already inhaled half of their popcorn and spilled the other half, he gratefully accepted and they got to watch the last half of the movie with a full bucket of popcorn which pretty much never happened.

Dean rested a hand on Sam's knee and Sam had to remove it and will away the resulting boner. When Dean tried again, Sam elbowed him and whispered, "Later!" The poor lady next to him had already had to deal with one pair of horndogs. She didn't need another.

The film ended without incident—Dean didn't even spill any popcorn during the final prom scene since they all knew that was coming, but they _both_ jumped during the fake-out nightmare scene at the very end—and they held their breath, at least figuratively, while the house lights came up. Carl himself came down to walk the aisles and check for any extra patrons left behind. He tsked at the excessive distribution of popcorn around Sam and Dean.

"That was all him," Sam insisted.

"Traitor," Dean muttered.

Castiel assured them that he had sensed nothing amiss, but they didn't fully relax until verifying with their own eyes that every single seat was corpse-free.

"Yes!" Carl shouted. 

They walked back out to the lobby just as White Ashley was saying, "It _was_ a research paper. I had _all_ my research. Everything was highlighted. My thesis advisor approved my annotated bibliography months ago. Writing it was just a technicality. He claimed it was just a _summary_ , a 'surface review'. That I 'clearly didn't put in the time to do a deeper analysis'. What does that even mean?"

"That you cobbled it together in one weekend while strung out on Red Bull?" Vivian suggested.

"And then he had the gall to use Google Docs against me. He looked at the creation date on the file," White Ashley whined. "That's discriminating against people who are smart enough to write fast."

"So, what did we learn from this?" Tanya said.

"That I should create a blank file at the start of the semester so he can't snoop on me this time."

Tanya turned to Vivian, "Please get us Sophie back. I'm not keeping this one. She's dumb as rocks."

There was another man standing at the edge of the lobby and, for quite awhile, Sam dismissed him as a straggler who was just taking his time leaving. He was a young skinny kid in a t-shirt and jeans, looking shy and awkward. Sam was completely taken aback when Dean approached him, "Well, Mr. Price, looks like the curse is broken."

"Yeah. Carl told me I fucked up. I guess it was all my fault?"

"Kinda," Dean agreed.

"But not on purpose," Sam added. "You didn't know."

"But now you do," Dean said. "So, no more magic spells, okay?"

"Okay."

"Was there something else?"

Price turned towards Tanya. "So, are you hiring?"

"You? Oh, hell no."

"Oh. I just thought…"

"Just get out."

"Yes, ma'am." 

Mary's phone started singing and Sam froze, half-expecting bad news.

_I don't give a damn_  
_'Bout my reputation_  
_I've never been afraid of any deviation_  
_An' I don't really care_  
_If ya think I'm strange_  
_I ain't gonna change_  


 

She stepped out of earshot of everyone who knew her as Agent Harry before answering.

"Detective Jett," Mary answered. "Uh-huh. Okay. No. Quite sure. Really. Sir, I am absolutely positive that your neighbor's barking dog is not a matter for the Homicide Division. I don't know. You could try Animal Control. That's not really my department. Have a nice day."

They walked out of the theater chuckling. There was nothing quite as uplifting as a hunt successfully wrapped up, with all the survivors more or less psychologically unscarred. 

"Race you back to Kansas?" Mary said as they approached her car. The parking situation being what it was, the Impala was another two blocks down, which would have given her a significant head start.

"Can I drive?" Castiel asked cheerfully, no obvious source for his unwarranted optimism.

"No," Mary said.

"Okay." He didn't look that disappointed.

"If Castiel drives," Dean said, "I'll give you a full hour head start."

Castiel perked up again, but Mary shook her head.

"No race," Sam said, firmly. "Dean and I are stopping in Weeki Wachee to see the mermaid show."

"Really?" Dean said.

"I pinky swore," Sam reminded him. "I am a man who stands by his pinkie swears."

"Gotta love a man who stands by his pinkie swears."

"Get a room," Mary muttered under her breath.

"If we're not racing back to Kansas, can we stay here a few more days?" Castiel asked Mary.

"Why?" Mary asked.

"I'm not sure you realize this," Castiel said, "but Nicky thinks you're very cute."

"I thought she liked _you_ ," Mary said.

"Yes," Castiel said beaming.

"Get a room," Dean groaned.

"That was the plan, yes," Castiel said. "And if you say 'TMI', you're a hypocrite."

"He's got a point," Sam said.

"Whatever," Dean said. "See you around then."

Mary waved and hopped into the driver seat and she and Castiel drove away.

"How is this our life?" Dean asked as they walked down the sidewalk to the car.

Sam had no answer, so he just slipped his arm over Dean's shoulder as they walked and Dean went silent for the last block as well.

They'd carefully prepped the car this time. All the windows had been left open a crack and they'd put white towels over the steering wheel and the vinyl seats. And they _still_ had to stand on the sidewalk for a few minutes while they let the car's fans blow the hot air out of the car. The AC wouldn't really kick in until they were a mile or so down the road.

"What?" Dean asked.

"What?" Sam repeated, no idea what Dean was asking about.

"That look on your face. You're up to something."

"I'm not up to anything," Sam said, but he realized even as he said that he was grinning even wider. "I'm just… happy."

"Cool." Dean smiled at him shyly and added, "I'm happy too."

"Let's go see some mermaids," Sam said.

They tossed the towels into the backseat and got in the car. Dean pulled away from the curb and Baby purred down the road.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥  
♥ THE END ♥  
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being so much longer than I expected it to be when I started writing.
> 
> How many of you made it all the way to the end?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who stuck it out and especially the people who left all the lovely comments!

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot thank [Amilyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Amilyn) and [Persephone Garnata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_garnata) enough. Beta readers are a blessing. (And you can never have too many beta readers and proofreaders, so if anyone is interested in a preview of future stories, you can connect with me over at [oldtoadwoman.dreamwidth.org](http://oldtoadwoman.dreamwidth.org/56251.html).)
> 
> Here's [a list of all the movies, songs, and poems mentioned in the story](https://oldtoadwoman.dreamwidth.org/49696.html).


End file.
